Yuletide in Panem
by titaniasfics
Summary: Holiday vignettes from all your favorite characters from The Hunger Games. Written for the Yuletide in Panem writing challenge. Featuring: Everlark, Gadge, Odesta, Hayffie and Rue x Thresh. Each Chapter features a different pairing.
1. Outtake: Little Christmas Bun

**Day 3: An Everlark Drabble**

 **Little Christmas Bun**

 **Written for que-sera-sera88 for the F-Yeah Everlark's Secret Santa 2014 Fic Exchange and Yuletide in Panem.**

 **Set in the** _ **Good Again/Sealed With Salt Water**_ **universe.**

"Help me with this, will you?" Johanna snapped as she attempted to string the lights around the large Christmas tree, leaning precariously on the ladder.

"I told you…" Haymitch responded impatiently as he sat in the armchair, watching Johanna struggle without making a move to assist. "If you had hooked the lights on the tree and walked the rope around, you'd already be finished stringing the lights."

"It's not going to hang right if I do it that way!" she huffed. "You just want an excuse to sit on your ass while I work. " Their bickering continued back and forth until Johanna's wife, Zarah, appeared under the tree and captured the end that was frustrating Jo so much. With a slow, languid drawl typical of the citizens of District 11, she admonished Jo.

"Now, you stop your huffin' at Haymitch," she shook her head at him in mock disapproval and then turned to Jo. "You should have called the minute you were struggling. I've told you that time and again…" The beautiful, curly-haired, dark-skinned woman fussed at Jo in the way that people who'd been together for a long time had of fussing at each other. Katniss watched her friends' banter and realized it was not unlike the unconscious scripts she and Peeta enacted when they were together, born of a deep knowledge between people who'd spent many years loving each other. And just like between Katniss and Peeta, there were harsh moments mixed into Johanna and Zarah's relationship that only time and persistence had softened enough to bring them to this point of complicity.

"You wouldn't be acting like that if Rowena was here," huffed Johanna angrily at Haymitch, clearly not ready to let her irritation go.

"Rowena is not the boss of me," he said irritably, but unconvincingly.

"Yeah, sure! That doctor's got you in your place, isn't that right, you old grouch?" Zarah teased, to which Haymitch scowled, though he couldn't repress the smirk that soon followed. Zarah was tough, like Johanna, but far less damaged than her wife, who had endured not only the Games and the special hell of being a Victor, but also torture at the hands of the Capitol during the Revolution. Zarah had had her work cut out for her when she decided to unite her life to Johanna's.

It gave Katniss a great deal of satisfaction to see Haymitch squirm - much as he wanted to deny it, Dr. Aguilar had been responsible for the fact that he was still alive and sober today. He could act as smug as he liked, but Rowena _was_ the boss of him, and he didn't seem too much worse for that fact. It also made for great ribbing when he was alone without her.

"Where is Rowena, by the way?" Katniss asked.

"Emergency call to the Community House. She'll be down in a bit." he grumbled, still eyeing both Johanna and Zarah with irritation.

Meanwhile, Effie and her husband, Oakley, the former Mayor of District 12, now one of the four District Consuls that represented District 12 before the House of Representatives in the Capitol, worked diligently on setting the table. This, of course, was not without disagreement, as Effie's idea of arranging the items was significantly more formal than perhaps the occasion called for.

"Effie, there is no need to set out the extra silverware," Oakley said patiently. "I don't think this is a formal dinner."

"Yes, but decorum dictates that all the silverware be placed appropriately," Effie said breathlessly. "Otherwise…"

"Otherwise, what, love?" he said in a perfectly reasonable voice. "Will lightning strike us down? Katniss, have you told Effie that you will toss us out if we do not place the soup bowls precisely above the dinner fork?" Oakley teased her, his blue eyes twinkling down on Effie with humor. In all the years they'd been together, Katniss had never seen Oakley lose his patience with Effie, even when, every now and then, her perfectionist Capitol-elite alter-ego made its appearance.

"I don't know, Effie," Katniss teased. "I might have to ask you to go directly out into the snow if you don't place the butter knives just so."

Effie gave a chagrined smile, collecting the small bowels and butter spreaders and replacing them in the credenza. "I've done it again, haven't I?" she asked sheepishly.

But Oakley, who looked at Effie as if she breathed stardust, collected the remaining utensils and set them in their place before capturing her small hand and raising it to his lips. "You want everything to be just right. There's nothing wrong with that."

Katniss slipped away, sensing that her presence was no longer required and returned to the kitchen to stand before the giant baking oven, hugging herself to still her nerves. She surveyed the dishes in various stages of preparation as everyone waited for Peeta to come home from the bakery with Thom and Delly. Katniss was more anxious than usual that this dinner be as perfect as possible.

Just as Katniss was reaching out to test the dough for the dinner buns, the back door opened, and in came Tristan, Annie and Finnick's now 16 year old boy, carrying bags of goods from the market.

"Can I put these here, Aunt Katniss?" he asked politely, to which she could not help but smile at him.

"Of course. Leave the bags here, and I'll sort everything out."

He set the packages on the counter, his shaggy auburn hair, now damp with melted snow, was the exact shade as that of his late father, Finnick. He turned quickly to hold the door open for his mother, gallantly relieving her of her own packages. Annie was the same even after all these years - a fragile, pale-skinned beauty with a dusting of light brown freckles across her tiny nose and luxurious dark hair. She'd never remarried after Finnick's death and even though she'd done a phenomenal job raising a sensitive, caring boy, she had never completely lost those moments of distraction in which she forgot exactly who or where she was.

"The snow's coming down pretty hard," she said breathlessly, dusting herself off on the mat before entering the house completely as Katniss hurried to help her remove her coat.

"I made hot chocolate. It's in the pot on the small burner," Katniss said as she hung their coats to dry on the coat hooks. Every few years, they got a fierce winter, full of snowstorms and bitter cold, and this year was proving to be one of those winters.

"That sounds lovely. Thank you, Katniss. Tristan, would you like a cup of chocolate?" she turned to her very tall son, who was all Finnick except for the light skin and a certain softening of his father's rugged features.

"Sure! I'll get it!" he said excitedly, bounding across the kitchen to fetch the mugs from the cabinet.

"Why don't you take a mug upstairs to Wesley. He's been waiting for you to come home," suggested Katniss. Wesley Greenfield was Oakley's son with his first wife, who had died tragically in the firebombing of District 12. He'd often babysat Tristan when he visited from District 4. Despite the age difference, Wesley had never lost his fondness for Finnick Odair's young son.

Katniss watched the boy as he poured the chocolate and walked as quickly as he could to meet his friend. She reflected on the first time she saw Tristan's picture, almost 15 years ago when she'd first conceived of the book of Memories to honor all the lost souls of the Hunger Games and the Revolution. He'd been a tiny bundle in his mother's arms and the only thing Katniss could feel was dread for the child because she did not have faith in the world he would soon be a part of. And yet here he was - fully grown, without major traumas, raised in the safety and security of a sane world. As if in response to her thoughts, her stomach gave a quick flutter of excitement, which she tried to quell by rubbing the palm of her hand across it.

"Annie, he's so beautiful," Katniss said with real feeling when Tristan had left the kitchen.

"Oh, I"ve been very lucky," Annie responded. "I have your mother to thank for that."

Despite her initial terror on behalf of the little boy, Katniss found herself happy for Annie, for the little piece of Finnick she was able to hold onto, though she was as damaged as everyone from the Games and the War. Luckily for her, Mrs. Everdeen had moved to District 4 after the Revolution and helped Annie with Tristan. Katniss no longer resented the fact that her mother had opted to live with Annie instead of coming to District 12 after the war to care for her broken daughter, even though at the time, Katniss had felt as though her mother had died as well. Those had been dark days for her because of the powerful rejection she had felt at having been abandoned yet again by her mother.

"Katniss," Mrs. Everdeen called, interrupting Katniss' very thoughts of her, drawing her attention. She gazed upon the blonde, blue-eyed woman, who Prim had resembled so much, in careful study. She could no longer find it in her heart to be angry with her mother, not after so many years of therapy for both of them. The fact of it was she could no longer find anger in her heart, period.

There was sadness in abundance - there would never not be. Katniss still had spells where getting out of bed was very difficult, though those bouts of depression were becoming fewer and farther between as time settled between the space of where she was now and the horrible events that had scarred everyone around her. Still, when Katniss searched her heart, she found very little of the fire of anger and vengeance that had fueled her for so long.

"You look distracted," observed Mrs. Everdeen. She gave Annie a brief hug of greeting before casting a conspiratorial look in Katniss' direction. "You shouldn't worry. Peeta's going to be over the moon" she said as she checked the pots warming on the stove and the rising dough near the oven.

Katniss nodded. "I know. It's just...Well, was it like this with dad also? Always feeling so scared?"

Mrs. Everdeen paused in her work to glance over at Annie but saw she had lapsed into one of her dreamy states and was not aware of their conversation. "Those were different times, and we didn't go through what you and Peeta went through. But there's always fear that something bad will happen. It's as old as life." Mrs. Everdeen approached Katniss, whose face had gone pale. "But we managed, at least until your father died. And bad things do happen. Didn't you get reaped? And Prim..." Mrs. Everdeen's voice failed her as Katniss' eyes went wide, reminded again that her mother had not been dealt an easy hand either.

Straightening herself against the blow of remembering her youngest daughter, Mrs. Everdeen continued, "But things keep moving and look, here you are! Peeta doesn't know what's waiting for him. I just want to see his face when you tell him. He's been so good for you," she said, her eyes bright with expectation.

Katniss couldn't agree more. Fifteen years with Peeta had cured her of so much. They had had such bleak days in the beginning - days where they couldn't even look at each other because the pain was so acute. However, through his example, Peeta had taught her that things could get better, that there was more good than evil in the world. His care of her taught her that others could care too. His patience with her had taught her patience. And his apparently infinite ability to forgive others and find the basic human decency in all people had taught her to have a little faith in humanity also. She'd never be as trusting or as open as he was but being with him had made her much more willing to take risks than she would have on her own.

It was for this reason that she wanted everyone she loved close to her tonight and why this dinner meant the world to her.

 **XXXXX**

When Annie was done with her chocolate, she went upstairs to wrap gifts with Mrs. Everdeen. Passing Tristan on the stairs, Katniss watched her mother leave a kiss on the boy's cheek - for all intents and purposes, she was his _Nana_ , and he would always be her first grandchild, even if he was not kin by blood. But when her eyes fell on Katniss, a sudden flush spread over her cheeks and a smile hovered on the corner of her lips, a secret that bound the women across generations the way these things have always done, since the beginning of time, connecting mothers to their daughters.

A blast of cold winter wind from the open door exploded through the corridor as Peeta, Delly, Thom, and their teenage boys made their way inside, filling the empty space with the endless chatter of young people. Tristan bounded down the remaining steps with Wesley in tow to greet his friends, George and Frank, with whom he was accustomed to playing when he came to visit his aunt and uncle each year. Peeta removed his coat and scanned the room quickly. When he finally saw Katniss, his face broke into a grin that made Katniss' heart want to sing.

"I brought stuff," he said by way of greeting as Katniss stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his icy cheek.

"I see that," she smiled, accepting his brief hug before he went to set his packages on the kitchen counter.

"Oh, that's what we are now! Stuff?" exclaimed Delly. After years of raising children and tending her shop together with her husband, Thom, she had become soft and plump, the very definition of motherliness. Katniss looked down at her own, more muted curves and wondered if that was what having children did to you. She decided that she could use the extra that came along with the territory.

"The good stuff, of course," Katniss answered, hugging Delly, then Thom in greeting. Delly looked around for something to do and soon was helping Johanna and Zarah with the Christmas tree while Thom struck up a conversation with Haymitch.

"I'm sorry I got in so late," Peeta said after washing his hands and grabbing his kitchen apron. "The bakery was packed until the end - you'd think people had never heard of pre-ordering!" he said with a huff.

"I know. And the snow is coming down pretty heavy. Annie and Tristan almost got caught in it," Katniss answered as she gently took the apron from his hands. "We've got this. Effie set the table, and we'll start serving in a bit. Why don't you take a hot shower and change your clothes?"

Peeta looked at her sheepishly, clearly wanting nothing more. "Are you sure? I don't want to leave you with all the work."

"Don't worry! If it gets bad, they can serve themselves! There's not one person here who hasn't slept in this house or been in our fridge before." Katniss watched as his resolve waned. She knew him so well. "Go, take half an hour and clean yourself up."

Peeta hugged her, grasping her braid in his hand. Nuzzling the warm spot beneath her ear, he whispered, "You wanna come upstairs and help?"

Katniss chuckled, squeezing him to her. The temptation was strong but the house was full of people. "Only if you want to have dinner for breakfast tomorrow. You better get going, tiger, and wait until later to open your gift, just like everybody else."

He pulled back, laughing. "Not like everybody else, I hope." He turned happily and made his way up the stairs, the uneven footsteps reverberating through the corridor.

"No, not like everybody else," whispered Katniss to herself. "Not this year."

 **XXXXX**

There was no shortage of help. Everyone descended on the kitchen (except for the boys and Haymitch, of course) to help carry the food to the table. After spending so much of her youth struggling to eat, Katniss could not help but feel a sense of satisfaction when she saw her cupboard full and a table overflowing with good things to eat. There was the baked turkey, roasted potatoes, sauteed vegetables, sweet potato casserole, minced pies, and potato salad. In addition, Zarah prepared an incredible mixed rice concoction called _jambalaya_ , made with spicy sausages. Delly provided a roasted, stuffed duck and Mrs. Everdeen made a beef stew, while desserts and pies came from the bakery. By the time Peeta came downstairs, the meal was ready to be served.

Katniss took account of everyone present, feeling dismayed that Rowena would miss the start of the meal when the front door opened, and the doctor herself entered, shivering from the cold.

"Wow, it's coming in sideways. Merry Christmas! I'm sorry I'm late." She shimmied out of her coat and hung it near the fireplace to dry. She uncovered a box from under her arm and showed it to Katniss. "I made some stuffed baked pasta, even though it doesn't look like we'll get to it. It just needs to be heated," she said, making her way into the kitchen.

"I got it." Haymitch took the package and lead her to the chair he had just vacated. Katniss watched in amusement as Zarah gave Johanna a knowing look, smirking as she mumbled "Mmm, hmm," under her breath, just loud enough for Haymitch to hear. He said nothing but only scowled in response.

"I believe where I come from, they call it having your man on lock," Johanna,said loudly, to which Zarah burst into laughter. Katniss herself had a hard time suppressing her own mirth as Haymitch's face become dark with irritation.

"Bite me," Haymitch muttered as he passed them on the way to the kitchen. When he returned, he sat down next to Rowena, flicking away a small leaf that had become entangled in her still damp hair, all the while studiously avoiding Johanna and Zarah, who continued to laugh and make veiled comments at his expense.

Katniss took her seat next to Peeta, who'd risen to his feet, carving knife at the ready. "Okay, okay. Listen up, folks," Peeta said, tapping the blade against his glass to capture everyone's attention. "Here, here! Okay, so, as the man of the house, I get to…" but he could not complete his thought as twitters of laughter erupted around the table. The loudest was Haymitch, who groaned, muttering something under his breath that included Katniss' name. Effie pinched her lip, while Mrs. Everdeen became very interested in the table cloth. Johanna guffawed and even Annie giggled demurely behind her hand.

Peeta cast everyone a mock glare of warning before continuing, "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, since I'm the _man_ of the house, I have the honor of cutting the turkey and making the speech. So here goes," he cleared his throat dramatically, pausing to gather his thoughts..

Oakley interjected, "You need some help there, Peeta?"

Peeta blushed as the laughter kept him from completing his sentence. "You guys are regular comedians Look, all I was going to say was thank you, for sharing this special evening with Katniss and me. It's incredible that at one time, the best we would've been able to come up with on a night like this was some thin soup, and stale or hard bread.' He gave a pointed look to the young men in particular, and Katniss knew he was trying to impress upon them the privilege that they were enjoying at the moment. The mirth of only a moment ago gave way to a meditative silence as he continued.

"I don't want to dampen spirits but we shouldn't forget how very lucky we are that despite everything, we have each other." Peeta turned towards Katniss, directing his words to her. "I have my happily ever after, and I try not to lose sight of that each day, no matter what ghosts come to visit."

Katniss reached up and took his hand, giving it a powerful squeeze. He would be the end of her tonight if he continued in this way.

Peeta turned back to his captive audience, giving them a warm smile of gratitude and welcome. "So the only good advice I can give you on this special night where we celebrate friendship and the spirit of generosity is...may you never forget what needs to be remembered nor remember what is best forgotten."

All was silence as everyone in the room considered his words and the necessity of their truths. Katniss watched Peeta carefully slicing down on the turkey, awed by his ability to choose the best possible words in any circumstance and felt love bloom fiercely in her heart for her boy with the bread, no longer a boy but a man who had only become more fully what he had always been.

 **XXXXX**

"Come with me to the kitchen," she whispered to Peeta after dinner, while everyone was engaged in unwrapping gifts. Peeta stood up and followed her dutifully in that direction, clearly thinking Katniss needed some errand done.

Turning on the overhead lights as they entered, Katniss turned to him. "Close your eyes."

Peeta smiled in confusion. "What are you up to?"

"Uh-uh. It's a surprise. Now glue them shut!" she laughed nervously. When she was sure he was not cheating, she led him to the warm oven, which now had a large red bow on the door.

"Merry Christmas!" Katniss said, her voice shaking. It was gimmicky, but she didn't think she had the words to actually tell him.

Peeta looked at his oven quizzically, even going so far as to tilt his head. "Um, Katniss, that's the same oven we've always had."

Katniss scowled in mild irritation, her nerves making her more impatient than usual. "Oh, for heaven's sake, just open it!"

Peeta shrugged good naturedly and opened the oven door. The light in the oven went on as he reached inside. "Katniss, why is there a bun in the oven?"

Katniss gasped, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in her throat. "You should know, Peeta. You put it there."

"No I didn't. I...oh…" he trailed off into silence, a look of shock slowly dawning on his face.. "Oh!" he exclaimed again, as he looked first at the oven, then at the bread, then at Katniss. The way his eyes flittered between all three was the most comical thing she'd ever seen.

"Are you…?" Peeta couldn't even say it, and it broke Katniss' heart a little because after begging for so long, even after they'd agreed, he'd probably given up hope of ever really being a father.

"Yes," she said, the terror that was slowly turning the air in her lungs to ice warring with the warmth in her heart at having made him so supremely happy. "Merry Christmas," she said.

Peeta's face broke into a joyous, ever widening grin, his eyes beginning to fill with tears, as he wrapped his arms around her and picked her up off the ground, hugging her close to him as he exclaimed loudly, making a sound that was something between a laugh and a sob. It was so loud that it drew their guests from the living room to the kitchen, and the space suddenly became crammed with people.

"You guys alright?" asked Haymitch, a look of mild panic on his face. Rowena, who had been the one to examine Katniss when she suspected she might be with child and had confirmed her suspicions, placed a calming hand on his arm.

"You're going to worry yourself to death," Rowena whispered as Haymitch visibly relaxed under her touch.

"Old habits die hard," he answered, bringing his own hand to rest over hers.

"I'm going to be a dad!" Peeta blurted out, still reeling from the news. "I'm going to be a daddy! See, there's a bun in the oven!"

Katniss watched him, the word "daddy" echoing in her ears, savoring it, her heart fit to burst with love at his absolute joy. It took her back to that night on the beach when she had imagined a world where Peeta's child could be safe. And now she was the one that would give that dream to him. How impossible it had seemed then, how improbable it seemed now, and yet the universe had just shown that, occasionally, the odds could be in their favor.

There was general laughter and mayhem as the news settled in on their guests. Delly, who could always be counted on to be exuberant on behalf of all the stoics in the room, burst into a fit of happy tears, hugging both Peeta and Katniss with something close to ecstasy. Thom, who likely remembered when Katniss first returned to District 12 and could barely make it back to her home in Victor's Village on her own, shook Peeta's hand extra hard and smiled with satisfaction as if he'd won a secret bet with himself.

"You went and made us Aunties!" exclaimed Johanna as she and Zarah encircled Katniss in a tight hug. "You are so in for it now, Brainless!" she laughed as Zarah shook her head.

"You're gonna scare that girl right out of making babies, you know that?" she teased, making Johanna laugh, which was not something anyone often saw. "You better be prepared to have one spoiled little child, Peeta!" Zarah admonished as she hugged him tightly.

"You can count on it." he said, wearing the expression of a man who was still in the throes of a dream.

The boys were more muted in their congratulations. After all, they were still at that age where they couldn't decide whether girls were amazing or gross and babymaking was one of those things that was all tied up in their confusion. Tristan, George, and Frank were appropriately polite and slipped away to get back to their gifts as soon as the adults were distracted. Wesley made a better show at being mature but he, too, slipped out at the earliest opportunity.

Annie's lips shook as she congratulated the soon-to-parents. "Finnick would have loved this, if he'd been here," she said. Annie hugged them both dreamily and Katniss liked to think that in those moments of distraction, she was somehow together with Finnick again.

Haymitch didn't even make a pretext of smugness and simply pulled his two ex-tributes to him, wordlessly inviting their new little addition into the circle of his protection. He and Katniss shared this in common - a complete allergy to any excessive public displays of emotion. But he made an exception on this occasion as he had on the day of their wedding.

"Y'all made me a grandfather after all," he said as Mrs. Everdeen approached. "That is, if you don't mind, ma'am," he said in deference to the older woman.

"A baby can never have too many people to love it," she said placidly as she hugged Peeta to her.

"Thank you, for making her happy." Mrs. Everdeen whispered to her son-in-law, as she did every year since they'd married.

"Thank you for Katniss. She makes me happy too," he responded in turn. It was their own private ritual, a secret exchange of affection that they indulged in each year, as a reminder of what they owed each other.

Haymitch turned to a very content Rowena. "You knew, didn't you?"

She nodded. "I'm the one who did Katniss' pregnancy test and examination."

Peeta looked at her with curiosity. "How far along is she?"

Rowena smiled. "By the looks of it, she's almost three months. It will be a late spring baby if it goes to term."

"And you didn't even tell me," groused Haymitch.

"Oh, no, you don't! Doctor-patient confidentiality. Inside my clinic, Katniss is my patient and her medical business is her own." Rowena stepped forward and hugged Katniss tightly. "But outside the clinic, it's different. I'm going to give those two over there a run for their money…" she jerked her thumb at Johanna and Zarah. "This is going to be the most spoiled baby in the history of babies!"

Effie was equal to Delly in the hysterical way she received the news, exclaiming over and over that her birds, her darling birds, were expecting. Oakley pulled Peeta away from Effie's effusions to offer him his own personal congratulations.

"I remember the way you treated Wesley when we first met. I've never forgotten your kindness to him. You're going to make a fine father," he said, shaking Peeta's hand vigorously. Peeta flushed with pleasure but before he could respond, they were interrupted by Effie. Just as she did for their toasting, she fetched champagne (and apple cider for the expectant mother) for a toast of good fortune.

Later that evening, as the guests cleared out to their respective rooms, Katniss leaned drowsily against Peeta on the sofa, her legs tucked under her.

"That was, hands down, the best Christmas gift I've ever gotten," he said quietly, toying with her braid.

"You mean, better than last year, when I dressed up as Santa's Helper?"

Peeta blushed furiously. "Oh, right. That Christmas is actually pretty hard to compete with." He turned his face down at her. "You still have that outfit? Because, you know, you might not be able to wear it for awhile..."

Katniss purred, snuggling deeper into his arms. "Yeah, I have it but I'm not putting it on until everybody leaves. We were very noisy that night."

"Hmmm…" he said appreciatively, then changed to a more serious tone. "I know this is scary for you. I promise, our baby will be safe. You'll be safe. I'll never let anything happen to either of you."

Katniss listened to his words. "You can try, but you can't promise to always keep the baby safe. That's not how it works."

"I know," Peeta said with a frown. "But I can try my best."

"I know you will. Like you always do." Katniss sat up suddenly, knowing that if it was possible to give security and a sense of protection in this world, Peeta would find a way to do it.

"Let's go upstairs. I might not be able to dress up…"

Peeta didn't let her finish as he stood up suddenly and picked her up, kissing her so that everything south of her belly lit up on fire. "You are so sexy when you're pregnant."

Katniss laughed. "I'm not even showing yet!"

"That's okay. Just the idea of it is enough for me," he said as he bound up the stairs to unwrap his favorite gift of all.


	2. Outtake: The Fish-Seller

**The Fish-Seller**

 **A** _ **The Pearl of the Antilles**_ **drabble**

 **Written for Yuletide in Panem's Christmas Drabble Writing Challenge.**

 **November 1789**

When I arrived on the Monsieur Seneca Crane's residence in Le Cap, I possessed the faculty of speaking proper English, French and Creole. My mistress, and Crane's now deceased aunt, Madam Fevre, had trained me to be a lady in waiting. She had not intended for me to be a hired hand on the plantation fields. That was for the likes of the recently arrived, the poor, desperate souls stolen from their lands in Africa and brought, naked and consumed by sea sickness, to the ports of Le Cap.

No, my place was at the side of the wives of diplomats, merchants and governors. She had made that much clear in her will when she bequeathed me to her nephew, as part of his inheritance.

Perhaps because of this, Monsieur Crane despised me.

When he installed me as a kitchen maid, I accepted my lot, for what other choice did a slave have? Even if I spoke twenty languages, sang like the angels, or was as beautiful as the Madonna herself, it did not matter. I even had a secret gift that he did not know of. I could read a little, something slaves were not allowed to do. But all of these talents meant nothing because I was no better than the footstool at my master's feet.

As the newest acquisition, and subject to the jealousies of the coarser kitchen maids because of the relative leisure of my previous employment, I was assigned wash duty and worked in the kitchen as needed. I should have been grateful - I would permanently reside in Monsieur Crane's home in Le Cap and never see the plantation where it was rumored that he ruled with the iron fist of cruelty. Even so, I looked at my fair hands, which had not seen harsh work in all their lives, the skin smooth and dewy - and said a silent farewell to them as I plunged my hands into the wash. I saw the advantages of my gifts float away in the soapy, hot water of the kitchen wash and wondered forlornly if my station would ever improve.

 **XXXXX**

I was fortunate that Monsieur Crane spent most of his time far from his home in the city. The household, tolerable when he was away, became tense and unbearable in his presence. And he never tired of making me pay for what he perceived was my idle nature.

"My aunt kept you like a pet, so you have forgotten your place in the natural order of the world," he spat when I tarried too long to bring him his tea. In his impatience, he knocked an inkwell onto the floor, it's viscous, black liquid leaving a smattering of dots along the front of my apron skirts.

"Go on, you lazy cow. Get on your knees and clean that mess. And take care that you wipe every last drop or I shall flog you one lash for each stain you leave behind."

Trembling, I got down onto my knees, first wiping, then scrubbing, all the while thanking Papa Dumballah that the floor was stone and not wood or I would have to take those lashes no matter how much effort I put into cleaning the mess left by Monsieur Crane's indignation. He rose from his place, making sure to kick me with his boot as he walked by, leaving a welt on my thigh. I could only imagine, if I were forced to live each day in the company of such unrestrained wickedness, I might escape into the mountains, if I made it, or happily take the penalty of death instead.

 **XXXXX**

I heard of Thresh Arceneaux before I ever laid eyes on him him. On the days when the fish-seller called at the kitchen door, the maids sprinkled themselves with floral extracts, borrowed or made, and took care to comb through their hair, oiling dry, neglected locks to tame the wayward wisps caused by the perpetual humidity. The ladies chattered with the expectation of being spoken to by the young man as if he were King Louis himself come to visit his subjects.

The first time I finally saw him, he sat silently at the kitchen hearth. He was a privileged one, for he carried the master's money from the wharf to the master's accountant and was allowed to buy and sell, carrying on his person the explicit written permission of his master sealed with Monsieur Crane's seal. I did not speak at all, only watching as the maids fawned over him. Feeling shy beyond all measure, I withdrew to the pantry so I could watch without being caught.

Magdalene, a waifish brown girl with large, dry curls and hands hardened by labor, brought the young man a portion of leftovers from the master's meal, an offering the young man wisely refused, for if he was caught being fed without Monsieur Crane's permission, he would risk punishment for stealing. He did take the mango nectar, raising the glass to his lips and swallowing almost with one gulp the thick liquid, it's fragrance reaching across the room to where I stood watching the bobbing of his neck.

I became annoyed with myself. I had other challenges, such as trying to avoid being beaten by Monsieur Crane and pleasing the Loas so they would give me the strength I needed to endure my current situation. I had no time for distracting myself for even a moment with such things. And still I watched.

He took to his feet before the warm cooking fires, stretching his long, powerful muscles. I was struck at by how large he was - he filled every empty space in the kitchen, whatever was not occupied by swishing skirts, pots, pans, food and furniture. He was everywhere at once and his sheer corporality stole away my breath. I was seventeen, and though slim, I was not a short, frail girl. And yet he still managed to dwarf me.

But he had another disadvantage, one that I could not forgive him for, the one defect that would make me hide each time he appeared at the foot of the kitchen door.

He was beautiful.

His skin was the color of ebony, so dark it shined in the sun, a bottomless well of black that made my light brown skin look pale beside his. On an island where, the darker the man, the more likely he was to be judged brutish and animalistic, he wore his blackness with a pride bordering on insolence. His brown eyes took in everything - when the ladies of the house fell over themselves to serve him a bit of cassava or cod fish in sauce, he was busy discreetly surveying everything with his quick eye. There was nothing brutish about a mind that appeared so attuned to every detail around him. He was, in a word, mesmerizing.

On his third visit to the kitchen, I was asked by old Madame Valmont, the cook, to bring tea to our guest while she fetched payment for the fish. The ladies who usually descended on the young man like a murder of crows were dispersed throughout the house with the instructions to prepare for the annual Christmas ball that evening.

I gathered the tea set and, with such nerves that I thought I should faint, brought the young man his refreshments.

"Tea, sir?"

He looked up from his place before the fire and appraised me with eyes like onyx, lingering on my face until I was forced to look down.

" _Swazo daus Sweet bird,_ " he said, his eyes twinkling with humor.

I looked up in shock at the endearment but recovered quickly, hoping to remain cool and composed where the others would likely be hysterical. For reasons I did not wish to examine, distinguishing myself from the other kitchen maids mattered more than anything. "Sugar or honey?"

He shook his head, his face becoming grave. "I will not take sugar while my brothers and sisters are in chains."

Shocked at his audacity, I did not fail to hear the sing-song lilt of his speech and quickly understood that he had not been born on the island. "How many years have you lived in Saint Domingue?"

"Since I was nine," he answered, taking the tea from me and sipping it. "I speak French and Creole now, like the white men do, and they think I am tame."

"Sir, you forget yourself and speak unwisely," I admonished him, shocked again by the sudden intimate tone he had taken with me.

"I am not unwise to trust you. I knew that from the moment I caught you in hiding in the closet, like a tiny bird in a chicken coupe."

"That is unkind, given how those chickens receive you and cluck around you with only a care for your comfort."

"They see the a face, a body. They do not understand a man's soul," he set down the cup and stood up. "I have much work to do. It is Yuletide and the _Zoreilles'_ bellies must be filled," he turned to me, with that same familiarity as if he had long known me and I was the daft one who had forgotten our acquaintance, took my hand and kissed the knuckle. "May I call you Rue?"

"How do you know my name?" I asked, pulling my hand back, cradling the limb as if it had been branded by his lips, as if that should have mattered. But it did.

He smiled, the light reaching his bottomless eyes, but he did not answer. Upon closer inspection, their depths had more texture, like boiling cacao, where light and steam glinted off of the surface in a sporadic and uneven dance. "Until next time, _little bird_ ," holding my hand a moment longer than necessary before releasing it. "Au revoir, Madame Valmont."

"Good bye, Monsieur Arceneaux!" she said, waving at him from her place at the counter.

I opened the door of the kitchen, through which he stepped without another word onto the cobblestones that led up the walk and onto the public road.

 **XXXXX**

When the revelers from Monsieur Crane's ball had finally retired from their festivities early the next morning, the servants, many of whom who had been awake most of the night to serve the guests, began the arduous work of cleaning the dance hall of boughs of evergreen, melted candle wax, spilled punch and gilded decorations sprawled in every crevice. The kitchen maids prepared the late repast for those whose stomachs might be tender from too many spirits. As much as I tried, and as exhausted in mind and body as I found myself to be, I could not rid my mind of the impressions made by the young man. He had called me a bird and indeed, I felt like one - quick to flit and leap about, without peace or contentment. Except I had no wings and could not fly and if I had to attribute a melody to myself, it would be one of loneliness and now, of vague longing.

I gathered my table covers and towels that had been used in abundance during the previous night and stumbled outside to the wash basin. Most of the girls paid me little mind and I said very little to those around me, each day presenting itself like a mountain to be traversed until night came and I could be left to myself to the protection of darkness and the oblivion of sleep. I filled the wooden bucket with water from the well. Setting a small fire to warm the water for the wash, I mechanically added the coarse soap to the water.

In the distance, I heard a call like a bird. It was pleasant at first, a warbling melody quite unlike any I'd heard before, almost too harmonic for such feathered creatures. But when it became loud and insistent, I realized that it was no bird at all, at least not one of the variety I was familiar with.

"Little bird!" came the fierce hiss from the ivy-covered iron fence surrounding the yard where the servants worked.

"Who's there? I asked, panicked by the voice of a man so near to me.

"Little bird, do you not comprehend your song?" chuckled the voice and I saw in an instant through the rails, partially hidden by the climbing green plants, Monsieur Arceneaux, his devilish eyes twinkling with mischief.

I stepped quietly, careful that no one see me before I reached the fence. "I speak well enough for men to understand," I said dryly, though if I were true to myself, I would admit that it made my heart leap to think he might be back only to see me.

'Here," he thrust a package wrapped with worn red material through the gate. "It is Christmas, even for us."

"Sir…" I protested, completely disarmed by the forward nature of his attentions, "I cannot…"

"Look at it first. Do not throw away my work," he pleaded.

I sighed in disapproval but unwrapped the lumpy thing, the corners of the once lavish wrap now frayed and discolored. I paid no mind to the impoverished wrapping and instead searched within. It was a bird, carved with delicate attention from wood. The figure of the creature that rest so lightly in the middle of my hand was defined, down to the striated lines along its beak and the texture of its feathers and wings. It was lavishly done, with a careful attention to detail. When I looked up, I was overwhelmed by the generosity of the sculpture.

"How did you do this in one night?" I asked, awash in a myriad of conflicting feelings - awe, fear, excitement, and far beneath, a magnetic compulsion to know more about this mysterious man.

"I began to make it when I first saw you. It has long since been complete but," he faltered, so unlike the sharp confident man he had been until now. "I waited until the proper occasion to give it to you."

I stared at him, at his imprudence but was hard pressed to be offended. "I'm sorry, sir, I have nothing for you."

He smiled, perhaps relieved that I had not scorned his offering. "But one day you will," he leaned into the gate. I caught his eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes. Lines of laughter crinkled around those midnight eyes and he had two deep dimples that made him look both impish and innocent at the same time. I thought for an instant I saw what he meant, what I would eventually give him. It sent a thrill down my spine, the air suddenly heavy with prophecy and expectation. I curtseyed, as I had been trained to do when taking leave of someone. I I knew I should return to my labors before I was scolded by Madam Valmot or boxed on the ears by Magdalene. But his voice, honeyed and sweet, like the cool night air that breathes relief on your ears, called me back with a tone to match the longing growing in my heart.

" _Jwaye Nwèl ti zwazo Merry Christmas, bird_ ," he said before turning to disappear into the thicket of jungle leaves.


	3. Apples and Cloves

**banner by the unbelievably talented akai-echo**

 **Day 6 - An Everlark Christmas drabble**

 **Apples and Cloves**

Katniss pulled Peeta's maroon sweater from the drawer and handed it to him, where he packed it snugly into his carrier bag. "When will you be back, again?" she asked, looking longingly at the vibrantly-colored, hand-made cable knit she'd given him for his birthday. It was, hand's down, her favorite sweater because of the way the color contrasted with his lightly-colored skin, it's snug cut outlining his well-defined chest and back muscles. She couldn't begrudge him if he wanted to take it with him on his visit to the Capitol. She just hated that he would be wearing it, especially _there_ , and she wouldn't be around to appreciate it.

"My return train is on Friday afternoon," he said, rummaging for extra socks and boxer shorts and tossing them on top of the pile of neatly folded clothes. "If everything works out and it doesn't snow too badly, I'll be back home before you know it and won't have to return for another year," he continued, sealing the bag shut when he was sure he'd packed everything on his list. Katniss smiled despite her unhappiness, which she tried with all her might to not let him see. He made lists for everything - to-do lists, shopping lists, birthday, gift and packing lists...she found his notes all over the house. It was ironic, given that Katniss had a more lackadaisical approach to the concept of organization.

He rolled the carry-on out of the room and down the stairs, setting it next to the entrance. His wallet, tickets and house keys already sat on the credenza in the vestibule, ready to be scooped up when he left to catch his train early in the morning.

Katniss settled down on the sofa, twisting the hem of her sweater. Her anxiety was kicking in with a vengeance but she used her breathing techniques so that, by the time he had arranged all of his things and taken a seat next to her, her heart was no longer galloping hard in her chest. Peeta put his arms around her and pulled her to him, squeezing her close.

"You don't need to worry, you know," he said.

"I'm not worrying," Katniss scowled, feeling an irrational surge of anger towards him. As if it was his fault that he had to go away for his annual follow-up visit with Dr. Aurelius. As if he could be blamed for the hijacking that rendered these visits necessary. As if he'd asked to be abandoned in the Arena, as just another piece of collateral damage in the mission to save Katniss.

"If you say so," he quipped, leaving kisses along her neck and shoulders, but Katniss pulled away, giving an imperceptible shake of her head. Peeta stopped, leaning back slightly back to look at her. Even though he schooled his features, it was evident on his face that her rejection had hurt him.

She felt her self-loathing rise within her and, had she not been pinned to Peeta's side by his strong arms, she would have cleared the door of their home in Victor's Village and ended up in the woods. She wanted to spend the last few hours with him, even if she felt in the deepest part of her heart that she didn't deserve him. His annual visits to the Capitol provoked some of her darkest moods because directly or indirectly, it would always be her fault that he needed to go there.

Peeta stood suddenly, jarring Katniss from her thoughts.

"Help me with something," he said, offering his hand to help her off the sofa.

Katniss eyed him warily but took the proffered hand. He led her to the kitchen, picking up two apples from the fruit basket as they walked and handing them to her.

"I'm not hungry," Katniss complained, holding the small harvest apples in her hand, their tight, shiny skin cool against her palms.

"We're not going to eat them," Peeta said, pulling out a jar of cloves, cinnamon and freshly ground vanilla beans. He also set two places at the table with a plate on top of each. Katniss watched his every move, momentarily forgetting her growing despondency.

"Sit," he ordered her, setting the jars on the table and taking the seat next to her. He opened the jar holding the cloves, which sat like brown-black tacks piled one on top of the other. The smell was pungent and strong and quickly filled the kitchen, making Katniss suddenly relax despite herself.

"We used to make these as gifts for each other on the longest night of the year, if the apple tree was giving good fruit that year and if mother was willing to spare the cloves," he said, smiling so sweetly, his blue eyes appeared to sparkle in the dim light of the kitchen. "Dad said it brought good luck for the new year." his forehead furrowed momentarily and Katniss knew he was thinking of his family, who were no longer with them, like so many others. Because of her.

He resumed the task before him. "Take the apple in your right hand, since your lefty," he held his apple firmly in his right hand and reached into the clove jar. "Take the pointy end of the cloves and press it down into the skin, like this…"

Katniss wanted to ask him why the hell she should bother with this - he was leaving tomorrow and she would lock herself in the bedroom for four days anyway, trying to keep herself from losing her mind. She wanted to tell him that she could do it, she could be strong without him, but it was too soon, she wasn't ready and anyway, she didn't _want_ to be strong without him. She needed him to stay and keep her memories and grief from overwhelming her.

But she didn't say any of these things. Instead, she did what she was told, pressing cloves over the surface of the apple. Peeta did the same with his, spacing his cloves out in perfect symmetry. Katniss placed hers more randomly, some cloves closer together than others, taking more pleasure in the act of pressing the stiff points into the skin then in the results. She felt the ball of nerves in her stomach unravel with each press, the sweet juice of the apple coating her finger tips. The repetition soothed her so that by the time Peeta stopped her, she was calmer than when she'd first sat down at the table.

Peeta got up to rummage about, returning with some cheese cloth, a swatch of red and black plaid that Katniss had salvaged from one of her torn hunting shirts, red ribbon and a pair of scissors.

He cut the cheesecloth into two large squares and did the same to the plaid before laying them on the table - plaid outside, cheesecloth inside - and placing the apples in the middle. Katniss studied his hands, staring at the veins and crinkled skin of his strong fingers as he unscrewed the caps of the vanilla and cinnamon jars.

"Now, it doesn't matter how you do this," he said, turning to take out two tiny teaspoons from the side cupboard, dipping each in the ground powders before them. "Rye..he liked to take his finger and smear the cinnamon between the cloves. He also got it in his eyes every year so maybe that's not the best idea ever," he chuckled, sprinkling the contents over the top of the apple.

Following his lead, she did the same, covering the top of the apple with sporadic clumps of cinnamon, earning a smirk from Peeta, whose own confection looked like something he could sell away in the bakery. He did the same thing with the vanilla, covering the top, the interplay of flavors making Katniss' heart lighter, filling each dark corner with cozy comfort. It called to mind winter nights such as tonight, snow-dappled trees and stars twinkling through the a crisp, clear air while they sat beneath the ornamented sky, wrapped in a quilt, steaming cups of hot cocoa warming their fingers.

"I can't stand it that you're leaving," Katniss blurted out bitterly, the sweetness of her thoughts swallowed by the bitterness of her longing.

Peeta stopped his work, wiping his hands on a towel before turning towards her. "I don't want to leave you, not even for a day. But it's good for me to go to him. It's confirmation that I'm fine, that everything's okay with me," his voice shook but he continued more cheerfully. "And when they lift your travel restrictions, you'll never have to sit here, waiting for me to come home. You can come with me too, if I still need to go."

"I'll never go to the Capitol. It's...I can't…" she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. She wouldn't cry. She refused to cry.

"And that's fine," Peeta said, squeezing her knee, which was pressed against the good part of his leg. "You don't have to decide that now. You just have to stay okay until I get back," he said, averting his eyes back towards the apples so that she was unable to see what was in them. "Please."

He was worried about her. He didn't need to tell her but she knew. Maybe he worried as much as she did about herself. She felt suddenly, obscenely selfish, fretting over her mental state, projecting that onto him, when she should try to make him comfortable and serene. After all, he was going back to where he'd been tortured. It couldn't be easy for him either.

Peeta, meanwhile, pulled up the corners of the cheesecloth and the square of material over the top of the apple, tying it off with a piece of ribbon that he quickly made into a bow. Katniss did the same, her bow at least as respectable as his, which filled her with pride. When they were done, they had what looked like two wrapped gifts sitting on the table before them.

"We're just a few days away from the longest night of the year," he said, handing his near perfect apple to Katniss. "It'll remind us of each other while we're apart."

Katniss looked at Peeta, a powerful tenderness stealing over her as she cradled his apple. She handed him the one she made. "You mean, you'll take it with you?"

Peeta nodded, bringing it to his nose and taking a long drag of the aromas emanating from it. "It smells like our house in winter. Apple pies and hot chocolate with vanilla…"

"Cinnamon rolls and pancakes with maple syrup and frosted sugar cookies…"

Peeta smiled at her as she buried her nose in his treat. It smelled like everything that was good, all the things that made her feel safe and happy and at home. It smelled like Peeta and she knew it would soften somewhat the blow of his absence. She looked up and returned his smile. It was so soon, after all, and it was unrealistic to expect them to be perfectly healthy and well-adjusted to this life. Maybe one day, they'd get to a place of normalcy, even with so many difficult days in between. But she trusted that it could happen.

Peeta leaned in for a kiss. This time, Katniss did not pull away.

 **XXXXX**


	4. Bonfire on the Bayou

**Bonfire on the Bayou**

 **Bonfires and boat parades are typical Christmas traditions in the south of the US during the month of December, especially in towns near the water. Bonfires are lit along the lakeshore while boat owners will organize Christmas parades, in which boats will dress up, complete with lights, trees and carolers and float down the lake or river. At the end of the night, fireworks are lit and everyone exchanges good wishes.**

 **It's always been my headcanon that, in an au universe, Finnick would have been a Louisiana native.**

 **XXXXX**

Annie watched as Finnick strode along the water's edge, holding fast to the fishing schiff's rope. He reached the mooring on the dock and pulled the little boat in, tying the rope off before stepping into the cool bayou waters. His cargo shorts came just up to his knees but the water barely nicked at the hem as he lifted Annie by the waist and set her down in the shallows. He stole a kiss before turning to back to the boat, leaving Annie squealing as the water crept into her sandals, prompting her to scramble onto the sand.

"We'll have the best view from here," Finnick said, pulling the picnic basket and backpack from inside the boat. He scanned the coastline, searching for signs of his friends when he caught sight of Peeta working over a small bonfire while Katniss fed wood into the growing flames.

"There they are!" Annie exclaimed, rushing back to Finnick to take a pack off of his hands, but he waved her off.

"I got it," he said, his green eyes scanning the uneven ground in front of her as she stumbled. "You still got your sea legs?"

Annie blushed, averting her eyes as she answered, "You could say that," before Katniss caught sight of her and stood to greet her with a warm hug.

"Hey, you!" Katniss exclaimed as she pulled her friend in for a tight hug. "Have you told him yet?" she whispered, stray hairs from her thick braid ticking her nose.

"Shhhh…I haven't figured out a way to do it!" Annie answered in a low voice. "I thought maybe tonight."

Katniss large grey eyes grew to twice their size. "How can you keep something like that to yourself?"

"I'll tell him soon enough!" Annie answered as she let Katniss go and turned to hug Peeta. "What are you cooking up for us tonight?"

"Extra chocolate s'mores," he answers cheerfully. His blue eyes radiated contentment and warmth and she knew it was no small part to being with Katniss. Annie was filled with a sudden cascade of affection for her two closest friends, knowing how rare it was to find couples as insync as the four of them were.

"There's some beer in the cooler. Help yourself," she heard Katniss say but Annie discretely demurred, arranging the bread, cheeses and fruit that were her contribution to the evening's festivities.

"It sure isn't Christmas without a bonfire," Finnick said, pulling out a large blanket, wrapping Annie and himself in it before settling down on a large tree trunk. Katniss curled up next to Peeta also, tucking herself into his side as he stoked the flames with his free hand.

"And a boat parade," Peeta added, waving at the sparks that flew off from a piece of wood that landed haphazardly in the pile.

As if on command, the procession of boats started to make its way up the bayou, the open sea at their backs. In the sunset, the twinkling christmas lights and letters made each boat appear like a sparkling tree ornament. Annie sighed at the pontoon, it's bimini hanging heavy with pure, white lights as if snow had fallen on it, belying the unseasonably warm temperatures in New Orleans and most of the southern United States. At the prow was a Christmas tree with a bright star of David that doubled as a search light.

As they passed the treats around, nibbling on the cheese and the melted delights that Peeta roasted over the fire, Finnick pulled out a thermos of eggnog and, with exaggerated flair, popped the cork open.

"For the firework show," he explained, filling everyone's mugs. Annie, staring at her drink, wrinkled her nose discretely, provoking a knowing smile from Katniss.

At that moment, the sky lit up with fireworks, the still burning starbursts of red, gold and green raining down over the boats below. It was a spectacular sight, and Annie squeezed Finnick when Peeta pulled Katniss in for a long kiss.

"Cheers and Merry Christmas, everyone!" Finnick said, raising his cup and toasting Katniss and Peeta the sky still alight with such deafening explosions, everyone had a hard time hearing one another. Meanwhile, Annie took a sip of her drink, her face scrunching up in distaste.

"It's not spoiled, is it?" Finnick said as he turned towards her, sniffing her cup. "I made sure to make it the way you like."

Annie's lip trembled as she took both cups and set them on the sand before them. "I have no objections to it but," she grasped his hand and placed it over her still flat belly, "Our baby has other ideas."


	5. Would You Like That Gift-Wrapped

**Banner by the icomparable** **akai-echo**

 **Day 9: A Hayffie Christmas Drabble by** **titania522**

 **Would you want that gift wrapped?**

"Right, you keep yourself occupied while I visit the lingerie section, okay, dear boy," said the matronly woman with the purple-tinted grey hair and lavishly applied makeup. Particularly the rouge. Especially the damned rouge. She had smudges of the heavy red lipstick across her front teeth, as if she were a vampiric rabbit, searching for a cabbage or another rabbit to murder.

Haymitch couldn't help but groan, his acid reflux rising to burn the back of his throat. "Mom, could you not?"

His mother laughed, that ridiculous laugh that she'd developed later in her life, waving an overly manicured hand over her shoulder as if to shoo him away before taking the escalator up to the second floor, where she could lose herself in silks and laces that a woman in her late sixties had absolutely no business putting on, at least, that was how he saw it.

He scanned the chintzy glitter of the department store, the annoyingly trite holiday music tinkling merrily over the crowds of stressed and dazed shoppers, all wrangling for the perfect gift for people who probably had more than enough of what they didn't need.

Haymitch was one of those people who resolutely stayed away from shops during the holidays. A regular Grinch, he thought Christmas should belong only to kids - what business did adults, who knew that they were engaged in the biggest bullshit shopping extravaganza of the year, have of going on and on and on about the Holidays? The way he saw it, this was just another device to make folks part with their money, like Valentine's Day or Halloween.

But that hadn't stopped his sister Elise from roping him into going halves on a gift for their mother, who was upstairs frolicking in thongs and push-up bras. Elise was too busy helping his eldest niece, Katniss, with her first pregnancy and did not have time to run this errand, nor any of the other idiotic thing she'd asked him doing lately. He'd seen the inside of more maternity sections than he'd wanted to ever see in his life. Katniss was due very soon, so it fell on him to get their mother a gift - Haymitch, possibly the most unqualified gift shopper in all of Panem.

With a grunt of annoyance, he browsed the jewelry counter, searching for something special that would fit their combined budget. All this shit looked the same to him - glittery, sparkling, almost blinding to stare at. The dark wood framing the cases gave him relief as he scanned rings, necklaces, bracelets...

There. In one of the display cases. That's when he saw it. The gold bracelet with the heart-shaped charm. He peered at it through the glass, just catching his reflection in the window, causing him to wrinkle his nose. It would make an excellent Christmas gift for his mother, though what cause she had to be so fixated on wearing jewelry and makeup, he would never understand. His mother had become unfathomable to him ever since his father died. But then, women had never made sense to Haymitch. That was probably why he barely had a romantic life to speak of and hadn't had one in a long time.

"Merry Christmas!" came a shrill voice, so light and piercing, it stabbed his ears, ran through his brain and sliced down his spinal column, causing a violent shiver to roll in waves across his body.

"Eh, ahem, yeah," he said as he continued to study the bracelet, attempting succinctly to ignore the blond-haired sales woman who had descended on him like a harpy.

"May I help you with anything, sir?" she said, her voice less sharp but just as grating on his nerves. He was sure there were animals in the wild who could not reach the octave of this woman's voice. He looked up, and thought he was seeing a younger version of his mother by at least 25 years. The sales woman had a layer of cake on her face that he suspected had been exorbitantly sold to her with the promise of improving her appearance, money he decided had been poorly wasted. Her eyes were elaborately made up, with thick eyelashes, archly-painted eyebrows and lips that were, if possible, even redder than his mother's. The name-tag on the lady said Effie Trinket. Haymitch decided he didn't like her.

"How much is this bracelet?" he asked, pointing at the one he'd been studying earlier.

"Oh, that, well, yes, that is a lovely selection! It's $267.00, without tax, of course."

"Of course," he said dryly, looking over his shoulder to be sure his mother wouldn't sneak up on him like a torpedo bomber. "Alright, I'll take it," he said.

"Optimal selection, sir!" the woman beamed, showing a set of bright, white teeth which, to her credit, were not stained with rouge. This one was obviously a professional face painter. "Would you like that gift wrapped?"

"Um...yeah, why not. Is it gonna cost me?" he said impatiently, hoping the painted lady would put a hustle on it.

"No, no, no!" the woman practically sang, grasping a white box from beneath the counter and a bright red bow. "This is a courtesy service for our customers, as a reward for your loyalty and good taste," she said, practically purring as she left each saccharine pronouncement behind her like a reindeer shitting peppermints. Haymitch couldn't help chuckling to himself at the image of Ms. Trinket prancing about with a trail of green and red mints streaming behind her.

Mistaking his smile, she beamed back, puffing herself up to almost twice her size. "It's lovely, isn't it?" she said when she'd placed the jewelry inside the box and tied the red bow around it with a self-satisfied flair.

"Yeah, it's a work of art," he quipped dryly, taking out his wallet. "Can you hurry up there? I'm trying to get out of here."

"Of course! Readiest in the flashiest of flashes!" she sang as she took out a blue tinted plastic bag, the box hovering delicately over the opening.

"I don't need a bag," he huffed as he looked over his shoulder again. "I'll just put it in my coat…"

Ms. Trinket put up a dainty forefinger, adorned with a thin ring, nails fashionably manicured with diamonds embedded in the lacquer, and wagged it before his nose. What he wouldn't have given to be a rottweiler at that moment. "Tsk, tsk, tsk, this is not a bag!" she exclaimed before dropping the box inside.

"Well, what the hell is it, then?" Haymitch asked in exasperation.

The woman dipped her head towards him, almost slicing him open with her rigidly-styled, blond Barbie coiffure and whispered, "It's so much more than a bag."

She waggled her eyebrows at him as she opened a drawer beneath the counter and, with a dainty scooper, dumped decorative flowers that complimented the bow and sprigs of green leaves into the bag. When she'd crushed the evergreen, and reached for the cinnamon stick, Haymitch scowled fiercely.

"Look, lady, I didn't ask for pancakes. I don't need cinnamon in my damned gift," he snarled. But the lady took no heed of his anger, smiling docilely as if he were a child refusing to eat his vegetables.

"None of that, now. It will be wonderful when it's done, I promise. It is but a work of a moment," she said, snapping the brown stick, releasing it's heady aroma into the air before tying off the bag with a gold ribbon.

Haymitch took a deep breath of relief. He'd stink like Bath and Body Works but at least he'd finally have his gift. He removed his wallet from his pocket and fished two one-hundred dollar bills and a handful of twenties, ready to pay the lady. But, of course, it was not to be.

"Almost finished!" she sang happily.

"What do you mean, almost finished? What, are you going to do, dip it in chocolate? Cover it is sprinkles?" Haymitch was panting now in anger.

"Well, I'm going to put it in a Christmas box!" she said as she took a giant gold box out from a deep drawer near her feet.

"What...but I don't want a Christmas box!" Haymitch said, feeling his face turn purple. "Take my damned money before my mother comes back and her surprise is ruined!" he spat, slamming his money on the counter.

"Be careful!" Ms. Trinket huffed, "That is Mahogany!"

"Look, lady...can I just pay?" He looked over his shoulder, close to a panic. He was sure his mother would be down any moment.

"Just one final flourish!" she said brightly, recovering from the assault on her wood as she donned large, yellow dishwashing gloves and pulled out a giant sprig of holly. _God_ , he thought, _she's going to give me an enema with a holly branch..._

"No, no, holly! No gold gift box! Take my money or I walk!" he snarled, counting out the cash and snatching the crinkly, perfume laden package from the gift-wrap stand.

Ms. Trinket's eyes widened in shock. "Well, I never! Manners!" she exclaimed as she took the cash and turned with stiff shoulders to ring up his purchase. When she returned, she wore a deep frown, her bottom lip quivering. "I am just a poor shop person trying to do her job…"

Haymitch rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe she was going to cry. He pulled a five dollar bill from his wad and handed it to her.

"Now, now, don't go crying…" he said through clenched teeth but it was all for naught.

"Five dollars!" she squealed, earning a look from her colleague next to her. "Five...I am worth far more than five dollars! Octavia, please finish this transaction...I just...I'll be in the break room…"

"But..." Haymitch said before a look toward the escalator told him his mother was gently gliding down the mechanical steps.

"Well, then," the short, equally manicured sales girl said, pulling him out of his reverie and, to his horror, wearing yellow gloves with a long green sprig in hand. "Will that be holly or evergreen?"


	6. Do You Want To Build A Snowman

**Banner by the incomparable** **akai-echo**

 **A Katniss/Prim drabble featuring Everlark and Toastbabies**

 **Do You Want to Build A Snowman?**

 _ **Please, I know you're in there,**_

 _ **People are asking where you've been**_

 _ **They say "have courage", and I'm trying to**_

 _ **I'm right out here for you, just let me in**_

 _ **We only have each other**_

 _ **It's just you and me**_

 _ **What are we gonna do?**_

 _ **Do you wanna build a Snowman?**_

 _ **It doesn't have to be a Snowman.**_

 _ **Okay...bye...**_

 _ **from the feature film**_ **Frozen**

"Mommy, Mommy! It's snowing. Do you want to go outside with us and play?"

Sophia bounced on the ball of her feet next to the bed where Katniss lay. She wasn't quite sleeping, though it was already late in the morning and she was still curled up under the covers. It was December and it was _that_ day -the one day that all the therapy in the world had not been able to help her get over.

Katniss heard the _thump - da - thump_ of Peeta's approach as he scooped his daughter into his arms and tossed her up in the air, provoking squeals of delight from the brown-haired girl who was the spitting image of her mother, but had the eyes and character of her father.

"Hey, pumpkin, mom's not feeling too good today. Why don't you go help Rye get into his snow suit and I'll check your mom's temperature, okay?"

"'Kay. Bye, mommy!" Sophia scampered out of the room, taking the bright light of excitement with her.

Peeta sat at the edge of the bed and touched Katniss' forehead, brushing tangles of hair away from her forehead.

"It's not a fever, is it?" he asked.

Katniss shook her head, turning her swollen face up to look at Peeta. "I just need to be with her for a little while longer. Then I'll come down."

Peeta's furrowed his brow. "It's been two days. Maybe we should call Dr. A?"

She shrugged, thinking it might be a good idea but not quite caring at the moment. "I just need a little more time. I'll be down soon, I promise."

He sighed, running his hands through her sleep-matted hair. He picked up the plate on the end table and frowned at the food that had gone untouched. Leaving a kiss on his wife's forehead, he tried to catch her eye.

"I can stay with you. Haymitch is going to play with the Sophi and Rye and Delly's meeting us with her kids. They won't be alone," he offered.

Katniss shook her head and bit her lip, trying to keep from crying again. Peeta stood carefully, clearly unwilling to leave her but she knew he wouldn't let the kids go out alone. "We're outside if you change your mind," he said, smiling sadly before leaving and shutting the door behind him..

His exit left Katniss in the grey light of the snow-drenched day. It had been a while since she'd gotten so depressed. But it was the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Capitol and it was all over the news. The children came home, talking about it at school, there were commemorations in the center of town and in the Capitol. No matter where she turned, there was some sort of acknowledgement of this day that had brought so much to the nation of Panem.

But there were also the dead. She saw it in the faces of the survivors, people like her who had fought or lost someone who had gone into battle. For many, this day that had become a National Holiday, full of celebration for liberation and freedom, was the darkest day of their lives. And while she always marked the day of Prim's death with a melancholy that darkened the entire period for her, she also managed to function, get through and enjoy the Winter Solstice with her family, which always came about two weeks later.

But the constant coverage, the reminders and replays, seeing footage of herself, Peeta and the other Victors when they were young, being replayed every time the tv came on, was too much for her. Documentaries. Journalists seeking interviews, to whom she always said no. The surrender of the Capitol had been captured on film and those exploding parachutes replaying on constant loop (tastefully edited, of course) had been the last straw for her. She went to bed and could not get out again.

Katniss felt herself dozing off, in that half-state between sleeping and wakefulness that characterized her episodes. Her body did not need the rest but her mind begged for a reprieve from the overwhelming blackness of her feelings. She was no longer in Victor's Village, but in her little wooden home in the Seam. It was cold, just like today, and Katniss had taken her first tesserae to ensure that at least she could keep what remained of her family warm.

Her sister, so small at the time, was bundled up in blankets and buried in her mother's side on the bed while Katniss took the precious oil and lit a lamp, banishing the winter grey from the home. She stoked the fire with scraps of wood she'd found and set about to make the hard cakes typical of the Seam, for there was never any money for leavening or baking soda. Their father had died only a month before, the hollow of his loss hanging heavily over everyone but especially Mrs. Everdeen, who had taken to bed and only left occasionally to tend to her more physical needs.

At that time, Katniss had still longed for her mother's voice, would have given anything for mother to hold her again and to wedge herself between them and the sudden terror of a reality where no one would or could protect them. She did not want to be a nine year old facing the ruthless world alone. She ached for her, for a sign, any sign, that at least her mother still existed. But after a month, anger was beginning to creep in and replace the childish longing in her heart, the anger that would mark her character forever.

As she set the meager food on the table, Katniss heard her sister, who had not yet resigned herself to her mother's abandonment.

"Mommy? Mommy? It's snowing. Do you want to come outside and play? Mommy?" she said. For the first time, Katniss heard the hysteria in her sister's voice.

"Come on! Let's go play! Mommy! I never see you anymore - it's like you're gone! Mommy," she heard Prim start to cry. "Why won't you wake up?"

Katniss couldn't stand it. She rushed to her sister, who was now sobbing. "We used to be best buddies and now we're not. What happened, Katniss? Why is mommy like this?"

Katniss shook her head. She didn't know why. She didn't know where her mother had gone and why she couldn't come back but it was making Prim suffer and that was one thing she could not forgive. Her sister was all she had now and she couldn't help cast her mother a look of pure hatred while her little sister cried into her shoulder.

"Shhh...little duck," she said, rocking her sister back and forth. She pulled back and looked her sister, all blue eyes and peaches and sweetness and love, now flushed with sadness. "Let's eat, okay?" she said before she got a sudden idea, which she knew would cheer her sister. "Hey, do you want to build a snowman?"

Prim wiped her nose unceremoniously on her sleeve, leaving it bright pink from the friction. Slowly, her sobs subsided, though she gave the occasional sniffle. Finally, she nodded, and let Katniss lead her to the kitchen, away from their mother.

 **XXXXX**

Katniss woke and caught the aroma of lunch in the air. Peeta had brought the children back into the house to warm up and eat but there were other children still outside and she was positive they'd go back out again. She thought of her son, his thick, blond hair piled in chaotic waves on his head, tumbling over his forehead and ears. His cheeks would be tinged with pink, giving him a ruddy look, like a toy doll. She felt her chest squeeze - her sister's hair had been a slightly darker, flaxen gold color, like bleached wheat and Katniss had loved to comb and plait it, even when it wasn't needed.

She wanted so much to shake this thing and get out with her family but it was as if tiny bird claws held her in place and kept her from getting out of bed. She heard a shuffling outside her bedroom door as it opened and covered her head quickly with the blanket, hoping whoever it was would just go away.

She felt a weight displace the mattress as the person took a seat at the edge.

"Katniss?" came the familiar voice of her husband. She couldn't speak - she'd left her voice behind in the dream of her sister.

"I…" he stuttered, and Katniss could hear the feeling in his voice. "Delly, Thom, they're asking where you've been. I told them you were sick but...I'm not fooling anybody," his voice shook and the sound was like a punch in the stomach. "They said, 'it's okay, have courage,' and I'm trying, K, I'm trying. We've been through so much - we can't go back to this," he paused and she could imagine him running his hands through his thick blond hair in frustration, even pulling at the ends when the stress was too much.

"We only have each other, just you and me. If you leave me like this, what am I supposed to do? The kids need both of us. Please, just talk to Dr. A. He told me today that you could call him anytime. But please, get up, get out of here. The kids miss you. _I_ miss you."

Katniss frowned, irritated that she couldn't just stay the hell in bed like she wanted to. She was about to shout at him to go away but she saw the edge of the blanket lift slightly as Peeta's hand crept under, creeping across the mattress. She didn't know why but it brought a smile to her face to watch his fingers crawl towards her nose, smelling of mint and coriander. He'd probably made something spicy and warm and the idea of it made her stomach suddenly clench in hunger.

Like Buttercup pouncing on a mouse, she snatched her husband's hand with her own and brought it to her chest, pinning it there. The rest of the blanket came down off her as he slipped in and gathered her up into his arms. It made ravenous, for food, for warmth. For her family and for him.

 **XXXXX**

Freshly washed, with a belly full of fresh bread and soup, Katniss bundled herself up in her fur-lined coat, thick, impermeable gloves and snow boots that came up to her knees. She heard her children shouting outside with the other children when she pulled the door open, the bright light of the snow-covered landscape temporarily blinding her as she stepped out into the frigid air. She still felt like she weighed a million pounds, each step an effort that cost her something to take. But each step also became lighter, as if she were painfully shedding some outer skin.

Her daughter was the first one to catch sight of her. "Mommy's not sick anymore!" She ran as fast as her legs could take her and barrelled into her mother.

"Sophia!" Katniss said in relief as her little son clambered over the steps to pile himself onto his mother too.

"Rye," she whispered into his downy hood, his curls escaping to tickle her nose. Prim was here, in their flushed skin and shiny hair, their laugh, their pleasure at simply being held by their mother. She was also in the snow, the freezing cold and the vapor that escaped their lips. She came and went with the seasons, a spirit to times both future and past. Katniss would never keep Prim with her very long and she had to relearn to accept that each time she wished for it.

"So," Katniss laughed, catching Peeta's eye and winking at him. "Do you guys want to build a snowman?"


	7. Turn Me On

**Turn Me On**

 _ **Like a flower, waiting to bloom**_

 _ **Like a lightbulb, in a dark room**_

 _ **I'm just sittin' here waiting for you**_

 _ **To come on home and turn me on**_

 _ **Like the desert waiting for the rain**_

 _ **Like a school kid waiting for the spring**_

 _ **I'm just sitting here waiting for you**_

 _ **To come on home and turn me on**_

 **from _Turn Me On_ by Norah Jones**

 _I'm running a little late. Be there soon! - K_

Eight o'clock. She was late.

Peeta rubbed his face, looking at the menu card he'd prepared just for this evening:

 _ **Christmas Eve Menu**_

Seafood Bisque

Pheasant with lemon, chestnut and sage stuffing

Potato and mushroom ragout

Sweet potato casserole

Waldorf Salad

Cheese buns (of course)

Chocolate toffee pudding

Wine and Spirits

He surveyed the table settings. He didn't want to gloat too much (well, yeah, he did actually) but he had done a phenomenal job. He'd been preparing since yesterday, as he knew the bakery would be swamped today. The day before Christmas was one of the busiest days of the year. Tomorrow, it was his family's turn to host Christmas dinner so the Everdeens, Mellarks, Cartwrights, Odairs and Marings would all pile into his mother's enormous dining room and spend the afternoon together, eating, drinking and talking too much. No, the only alone time he was going to get with Katniss was going to be tonight. And she was already late.

Everything between them was perfect. The only problem was to consistently get Katniss out of her office on time. She was being groomed for management by the senior partners of the firm she worked for and that fact, together with her own natural ambition, meant that she was putting in an insane amount of hours at the office. Peeta was no stranger to working long hours, since the bakery belonged to him and it bore the famous Mellark trademark. It was also located in the busy downtown area of the city, which meant everyone in Panem, at one point or another, had passed through the wide double doors of his establishment. And Christmas Eve just ratcheted up the level of busy by a factor of a thousand.

But tonight, she promised she would make it to dinner on time. He stared at the clock on the wall, which said eight-fifteen. He gave a small growl as he realized the hour was getting later and later. He knew it was time for him to keep busy or he'd end up losing his temper. He pulled off his apron with more force than necessary, tossing it into the laundry basket as he made his way to their bedroom. He rummaged through his bureau, searching for the red sweater that Katniss had bought him the year before, a sweater she said was her absolute favorite for him. He'd done laundry so he had underwear and socks, which made him want to punch the air triumphantly. There was nothing he hated more than doing laundry, but he hated not having clean boxers even more.

He ran the shower, stripping off his shirt and pants. As he kicked off his underwear, his irritation continued to mount. _8.20_.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his mounting anger. What? What would it have cost her to get her little ass out of that office and back home at the time he'd asked her to? He was naked now as the steam filled the bath but he returned to his room, rummaging on top of the bureau, searching for his phone. He swiped the screen and pulled up her name on the contacts, punching out his message with lightning speed.

 _You're late. Both dinner...and I... are getting cold - P_

He pressed the small arrow icon with satisfaction before putting the phone back down, restraining the urge to throw it because it was an expensive phone and he didn't like breaking things he'd bought with his hard-earned money. Instead, he took his frustration out on on the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him. As he stepped inside the steaming stall, he tried to calm himself. He understood the source of her anxiety, her need to excel. He totally and completely understood. After all, she'd grown up very poor after her father was tragically killed in a mining accident and her mother couldn't keep it together after she fell into a deep depression. Katniss had known hunger - she'd had to figure out a way to take care of herself and her sister until her uncle Haymitch and Aunt Effie took them in while Mrs. Everdeen got herself sorted out. Katniss vowed she'd never go hungry again and had gone after each and every one of her milestones with a ruthlessness bordering on obsession - high school Valedictorian, her bachelor degree and then her MBA. Katniss didn't do anything half-way and it was one of the things he loved about her.

Peeta scowled as he soaped himself. While all that was true, she still owed it to him to keep her promises. He squirt shampoo into his palm and, in his indignation, extracted a dollop too much. He crushed the creamy liquid into his curls and scrubbed his scalp, perhaps harder than necessary, Christmas Eve! Of all days for her to be late!

As he worked himself into a frenzy of annoyance, he found himself completely covered in soap bubbles. With eyes squeezed shut, he poked his frothing head under the shower stream, working vigorously to get the excess soap out of his hair. He could feel the bubbles pool around his feet and muttered to himself, angry at the waste. In fact, he was just plain pissed about everything. He had a fucking gourmet meal, waiting in the kitchen and goddammit…

When he opened his eyes, he gave a shout of fright and nearly fell out of the shower stall when he found that he was no longer alone.

He rubbed his eyes to be sure his imagination wasn't playing with him. To his shock and absolute mortification, he found Katniss standing, completely naked and drenched under the head of the steaming shower, smiling smugly at him.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he asked wildly, trying to calm his racing heart and still very annoyed at her.

Katniss dipped her head under the shower head, wetting her hair, and rubbing what was left of her make-up away. She wiped her eyes and looked up at him, tilting her head to the side.

"You were talking to yourself," she observed. "You're pissed."

Peeta crossed his arms in front of him, trying not to get distracted from the sight of rivulets of water sliding over her silky, olive skin. Her nipples had hardened to proud peaks that captured the stream of sliding water droplets like a waterfall and he felt himself beginning to harden at the sight. But he thought about his bisque and the pheasant warming overlong in the oven and became annoyed again.

"And why would that be?" he asked, staring down at her, affecting his sternest frown.

Katniss reached up to rub her hands over his arms, returning his sternness with the perfect expression of chagrin. "I was late," she stood on her tiptoes and nuzzled at his wet, still soapy neck. "I promised I'd be home sooner and I was over an hour late and I'm sorry." She leaned into his crossed arms, rubbing her breasts against them so that something like firehouse bells went off in his head. But he held on to his indignation, turning his head slightly away.

"Katniss…" he said, his voice full of warning.

"I know I don't have any excuse…" she said as her hands slid down his wet back, coming to rest on the top swell of his ass, causing the muscles to twitch there. His scowl deepened when, despite his anger, he felt himself harden against her lean belly. "Boggs called a meeting in the late afternoon to clean out some last minute pendings and...well, I got caught up…"

"You promised you'd be home. It's Christmas Eve, of all nights!" Peeta complained as she squeezed his ass. He tightened his lips together. She wasn't playing fair but as upset as he felt, he didn't want her to stop touching him.

"You're right, I know," she said this as she leaned into him, feeling his growing erection and taking it in hand, stroking it languidly. "I have no excuse and I'm so sorry. I'll do whatever you want to make it up to you…"

 _Aww, shit,_ he thought furiously as she left a kiss on his angry lips before sliding down the length of his wet body until she was on her knees before him, the water pattering against her back. "You have no idea how hot you are when you're angry…" she said, continuing to stroke him, scattering his thoughts to the four winds.

"You play dirty, you know that…" he said, uncrossing his arms and grasping a handful of her wet hair. "I'm still angry..." He took himself in hand, rubbing the now engorged tip of his cock against her wet cheek.

"I know," she said as she lapped at the head of his cock, eliciting a low hiss from him. "I'm so sorry. You have no idea how badly I wanted to be here with you,"

He groaned loudly when she took the head of his cock into her mouth, at first only the tip, sucking on it, then licking it slowly, and Peeta felt his anger turn to something else. He swayed on his feet as she used the flat of her tongue to lave him from the base of his cock to the turgid tip several times, sweeping at the droopy eye with each pass, the shower spray creating drizzles of water all over their body, dripping off her nose and chin. When she finally took him into her mouth, he couldn't help but buck his hips. Her lips around his dick was probably the most amazing feeling he'd ever experienced and she knew it. She knew exactly how to get to him.

He looked down as she began to suck in earnest, her head moving back and forth while her hand stroked him, the sight of his cock disappearing into her mouth almost too much to bear. He breathed, trying to keep his balls from hardening, focusing on the water that fell on them both. He wanted to last as long as possible but soon, she was holding his cock away and licking his balls, gently teasing them before taking them in her mouth and he knew he was going to lose this battle pretty quickly if he didn't get himself out of her mouth. He wasn't going down like that. Not yet.

He grasped her hair again, pulling back gently so that his rigid cock slid out of her mouth. He lead her up to her feet before taking her mouth and kissing her roughly, his tongue sliding about her mouth, eliciting moans that he smothered with his kiss. He moved from her lips to her jaw, leaving wet, hot kisses along her neck and shoulders that mingled with the shower water. He took one hard, dusky nipple between his lips, sucking on them, feeling each pass of his tongue as a tug on his dick, which was beyond desperate to be inside of her. But she loved this and he knew it by the way she grabbed his head, prodding him on, moaning loudly when he nipped at her breasts. He took the tip of the other and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, thrilling at his name falling from her lips.

He straightened, capturing her earlobe between his teeth before he whispered "How sorry are you?"

"So very sorry," she said, her head thrown back as his hand slid down her belly and burrowed in the thatch of hair between her perfectly shaped thighs. He found her hardened clit and slid his fingers over it, causing Katniss to buckle under his touch. Pressing his lips against her shoulder, he licked the combination of her skin and the warm water as he drew circles and designs over the hardened center of her desire. She grasped his cock, pumping him as his fingers slipped inside her, the pressure building until she came in powerful spasms that sent moisture all over his hands.

Without warning, he withdrew his fingers, tasting them before pressing them against her lips, pushing them gently inside.

"Taste yourself," he said, which she did without hesitation, sucking his fingers the way she'd sucked on him. Even through the fog of steam that made it harder to see, he observed Katniss' half-hooded eyes, glazed over from her orgasm. When he pulled his fingers from her mouth, she licked her lips before grasping him on both sides of his head and pulling him in for a feverish kiss, her taste between them, on each other's lips and tongues.

When she pulled back, she dragged her lips along his jaw, until they reached hissed his ear and hissed, "Stop fooling around and fuck me already," Peeta pulled back in shock and saw the delirium in her eyes.

"It's not like you earned it," he groused before turning her around against the wet tile and without warning, yanked her hips back towards him and plunged into her. She was soft and pliant from her recent orgasm, so slick, he slid into her until he filled her to the hilt. He forgot that he should be angry with her and pulled her up against him, kissing her neck and shoulders, kneading her breasts before he reared his hips back and sank into her, over and over, reveling in the feel of her soft bottom slamming against his thighs. She was perfect, in all her ornery, single-mindedness, the way her body engulfed his cock as if they were two parts of a whole, the way she swore at him, the husky tone of her voice when she called his name. She reached back, twisting about to kiss him, slurring something that sounded like _I love you_ but he couldn't be sure. Locked together, they moaned into each other's mouths until they came like two hot jets that mingled with the vapor and steam, rendering the air thick with humidity and lust.

Peeta grasped her about the waist and pinned her to him, gasping against her shoulder until both their bodies and the water cooled. He felt Katniss' pounding heart slow down to normal as she melted into him in her satisfaction. They rinsed off with what remained of the tepid water before toweling each other off and pulling on their respective bath robes, dispensing altogether with the formality of dressing for dinner.

As they moved around the kitchen, Peeta handed her the Christmas Eve Menu he'd hand written. She stared at the card for a long while, appearing to read each letter of each word, after which she roused herself as if waking from a dream. Quietly, she followed Peeta as she helped him warm dinner.

After he served the bisque, Peeta glanced at Katniss, who appeared to be on the verge of tears.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, taking a seat next to where she sat, now sniffling into her soup. "Does it taste that bad?" he joked.

She gave him a watery smile, chuckling through her tears. "You did all this and I couldn't even make it home on time." She looked up with grey eyes wide with sadness. "How do you even put up with me?"

Peeta shook his head as if she had suddenly burst into speaking in tongues. "I don't 'put up' with anything. There's is nothing about you, not one thing I would change. I love your ambition, your dedication to being the best. You were late. Okay. So what?"

"You were pretty mad…" she muttered. "And you were right to be."

"Yeah," Peeta said thoughtfully. "But that doesn't mean I love you any less. The only reason I was upset was because this was my gift to you. I just wanted it to be perfect. I wanted you to eat the pheasant before it started to taste like plastic but don't cry…" he hugged her to him, regretting now his impatience with her. "You're here now. You love me, right?"

Katniss nodded against his shoulder. "You know I do."

Peeta shrugged before taking the somewhat tepid cheese buns from the oven. "That's all that matters." He put the basket before her, watching with a full heart as her eyes widened in excitement. Cheese buns never failed to make her happy.

"Merry Christmas, Katniss," he said, bending to give her a kiss that promised more later.

"Merry Christmas, Peeta," she answered breathlessly. When he took a seat, she pulled a bun apart and popped a piece gleefully into her mouth.

As he'd feared, the pheasant had lost a bit of the tenderness of being freshly made, the mushroom and potato ragout became a bit spongy, the crispy topping of the sweet potato casserole turned slightly burnt upon reheating. But when they took their pudding and hot chocolate into the living room, what followed swept the imperfect tastes aside, into the realm of anecdote, a funny memory that they would tell another day. It was, to Peeta, one of the very best Christmas Eve's he had ever spent with Katniss.


	8. Christmas Cookies

**Banner by the amazing akai-echo**

 **Day 17: An Everlark/Christmas drabble**

 **Christmas Cookies**

 **Based on the gorgeous fanart by mrpink627 (click here for the post)**

 **Rated M**

Sophia and Rye could barely contain their excitement as they frosted the Christmas cookies. Sophia, at nine years old, had gotten very good at her technique - she had a steady hand like her father and a gift for drawing which translated well in the kitchen when it came to decorating the cakes and cookies from her family's bakery.

Rye, on the other hand, was a matter altogether different and somewhat more desperate. He was four and, though he understood the general principle of frosting and decorating, missed the more important subtleties of cookie decorating, the first of which was to actually make sure the frosting made it onto the cookies and not into his little mouth.

Katniss was more inclined to forgive the extra portions of sugar that her children got into when their father wasn't looking. But Peeta, being the sterner parent, was more vigilant, knowing all too well the consequences of overindulging in sweets from having grown up in a bakery.

"My tummy…" Rye complained when he'd snuck yet another spoonful of frosting.

"Awww! Up you go, honey," Katniss said as she scooped the little one into her arms and carried him toward the stairs. She paused to let Peeta give the baby of the house a good night kiss.

"Nick a little too much, did you buddy? Mom'll give you a little something for that and your tummy ache will go right away," he said, to which the little boy nodded solemnly, clearly hoping for the relief promised by his parents.

"Don't fall asleep. We have a few things to do yet," Peeta winked at Katniss as he said this, his eyes full of mischief.

She raised an eyebrow archly at her husband. "I wouldn't dream of it," she tossed casually over her shoulder as she took to the stairs.

Peeta nodded imperceptibly before turning his attention to his daugher, who would be a harder one to contain tonight. It was Christmas Eve and he knew she'd struggle to fall asleep, fighting to wait for Santa to arrive.

"Do you think he'll like these cookies, Daddy?" she asked as she arranged the green and red frosted cookies on the plate. Some were decorated as Christmas trees, some were wreaths. All were made by her hand.

"He won't be able to help himself. These cookies are beautiful," he said with real pride. She was already showing the same artistic gift as her father and her work was already miles ahead of the other children in her class.

"Can I just wait up and see? He won't know!" she asked, though she rubbed her eyes in exhaustion.

Peeta shook his head, handing her the plate. "No, pumpkin, Santa would know. He knows everything," he said, kissing the top of her head. "Let's set up the cookies so we can get you into bed. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner morning will come and you'll have your gifts."

He helped Sophia lay out the green table cloth with white trim that her grandmother had given her for her first Christmas. She smoothed it out, her chubby hands still small enough that they reminded Peeta of when she was a baby, how thick her hands and feet had been, and the way he'd counted every finger and toe to confirm what he already knew - that his daughter was as close to perfection as a child could get.

"Daddy, please, can I stay up? Please?" she begged as he led her up the stairs.

"Sophia…" he said gently. When he was growing up, there were no celebrations of any kind. And yet, he could appreciate her impatience and could not find it in his heart to be impatient with her.

"Okay, okay," she said, yawning widely and giving no further resistance when Peeta helped her wash and dress for bed.

When Peeta returned to the living room, he found Katniss wrapping the last of the Christmas gifts. He helped her gather the scraps of paper that lay beneath the tree and toss them in the rubbish bin.

"She didn't want to go to bed, did she?" Katniss asked as she arranged the packages beneath the tree.

"She tried to stall but she was too exhausted," Peeta smiled, remember her small yawns and the way she collapsed the moment her head hit the pillow.

"She's persistent, that one," Katniss said, pulling a medium-sized, red box out from under the tree.

Peeta took it, glancing at the clock. It was a few minutes after midnight so he took out a much smaller box, cradling it in his hand. "She reminds me of another stubborn, brown-haired girl I know."

"Oh, come on, bread boy. You know you don't mind my stubbornness," she said handing him the box. "Merry Christmas," she said, kissing him when he took it in hand.

"You're right, I don't mind that at all. In fact, there's not much about you that I mind, except maybe your scowl," he teased, provoking the very look he had just commented on. Laughing, he handed her his smaller box. "Merry Christmas, Katniss, though I think that's more a gift for me than for you."

"If it's another elf outfit, I swear…" Katniss said as she pulled the bow off the box.

"No way. It's even better!" He continued to chuckle as he opened the box, pulling out an assortment of expensive acrylic paints and paintbrushes. He smiled widely, examining the fine bristles, already imagining all the wonderful paintings he'd be able to create with them.

He looked up, ecstasy written on his face to find Katniss holding his gift from the tip of her fingers before his nose.

"Really?' she said, the look on her face revealing that she was not as enchanted with her gift as he was with his.

"You don't like it?" he asked, watching the way she tried to untangle the silky, red material.

"The elf outfit was better…" she complained but the corners of her mouth pulled up. Peeta pulled it from her hands and unraveled it. It was a tiny pair of underwear with a reindeer design and a strategically placed reindeer nose.

"Wait, you're missing something…" he pulled out two soft, round, red pads with tiny, suggestive bulbs at the center.

"Peeta Mellark, you are out of your mind! I'm not putting nipple pasties on!" she threw them back in the box, crossing her arms as she shook her head at him. "You just get worse the older you get."

Peeta shifted over next to her, pulling her to him. She pretended to resist but he felt her melt the minute he pressed his lips against her neck. "That's because every day I spend with you is better than the day before."

Katniss groaned, rolling her eyes in disbelief. "You're something else. I can't believe you just said that. Is that my only gift?" she complained.

"The only one we can't open in front of the kids," he said, capturing her earlobe between his teeth. He dragged his hand along her leg, feeling her shapely leg beneath the thin material of her pajamas. "Come on, live a little. You don't have to do anything. I'll put it on you," he whispered in her ear.

Katniss shivered as his hand slid under her top, cupping her full breasts, running the pad of his thumb over her nipple.

"I don't even fit in it," she said, scowling down at her belly. Peeta knew she was thinking of the scars and stretch marks that having two children and being burnt during the war had done to her stomach.

"You are sexiest woman in the world to me," he said, slowly unbuttoning her shirt and flinging it away, leaving kisses from her ear to her collar bone, flicking his tongue at the base of her throat. Katniss moaned when his lips skirted the tops of her exposed breasts, the taste of her skin directly connected to the twitching in his pants. There was nothing in all the spices and sweets that he had tasted that could approach the effect Katniss's natural flavor had on him.

Pushing her onto the red skirt of the Christmas tree, Peeta tugged off her pajama pants and underwear, kissing the skin as it became exposed. Katniss writhed, her body strumming with heat and desire as he slipped the thin material up over her legs, and hips. He leaned back, admiring his handiwork.

"You're gorgeous," he hissed, ripping his t-shirt and boxers off, and practically pouncing on her, which made Katniss laugh so loud, he had to cover her mouth to keep her from waking the children.

"Shhhh...quiet!" he said as he moved his hand and covered her mouth with his. He ground down into Katniss, his stiff erection pressed against the nose of the reindeer. Glancing down, he saw that he had activated the blinker. Katniss, who had been sucking on the spot where his neck connected to his shoulder, glanced down also and caught the rhythmic blinking of Rudolph's nose and burst into laughter again.

"Stop!" she cried out. "I can't...I can't fuck if my crotch is lit up!"

"Be quiet, woman…" Peeta hissed, moving the thin piece of material aside and slipping inside of her with one thrust. She gasped in surprise, and then moaned as he began to move in and out of her. The mood quickly changed as Peeta wrapped hers leg around his waist, opening her to him so that he became lost in that rhythm they knew so well, a rhythm they had perfected after so many years of being together. Katniss quickly ignored the bright red, blinking nose and reached behind to grab Peeta's ass with both hands, pulling him as close as their bodies could get. They rocked together, his cock pummeling all the right spots and he watched as she climbed higher and higher until she reached behind her, her back bowed from an orgasm so powerful, Peeta had no choice but to let go and come also, muffling his cries in her shoulder.

As he shuddered from the last of his release, he heard a loud crash that caused him to whip his head up in surprise.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Katniss said as she showed Peeta the bunched green table skirt that she held, balled in a fist in her hand, the pearl of her wedding ring reflecting the periodic glinting of the Christmas lights on the tree. Peeta glanced behind her to see the table on its side, a shattered plate and a disarray of cookies on the floor.

"Ah, NOW you've done it!" whispered Peeta, listening carefully to the sounds of the house.

"Do you think they h-?"

At that moment a small voice, clear as a sleigh bell, rang through the living room.

"Santa…?"

"Oh, you're on the naughty list!" hissed Katniss from behind the tree, searching for anything to cover herself while Peeta scrambled to shove the bits of broken plates and cookies under the tree skirt.

"Why me…?" he said, shoving a cookie into his mouth as Katniss crawled around the tree, conveniently hidden behind the sofa. He didn't have that option - his prosthetic would just pound against the floor, making as much noise as the shattered cookie plate.

Katniss signaled him to stay put. On her hunter's feet, she crept from behind the sofa, pulling her discarded t-shirt over her head, and slipped into the hall.

"Sophia?" she called just as the little girl neared the tree. "Honey, is everything okay?"

"Mommy! Mommy! I think Santa ate the cookies! Santa..." The little girl bounced excitedly, then froze in place. The distraction had afforded Peeta those precious moments to dress and emerge from behind the tree. His relief at having been saved from being found in an embarrassing and possibly mentally scarring situation by his daughter was short lived. When he caught sight of what had made Sophia freeze in mid-sentence, there was nothing he could do except stare with mouth wide open as Katniss' face turned white in horror.

"Mommy, what's that on your panties?"


	9. Strawberry Sunday

**Banner by the magically talented akai-echo.**

 **Day 18: A Gadge Drabble, with references to Everlark**

 **Also written for the 12 Days of Gadge Challenge**

 **Rated: T**

 **Strawberry Sunday**

"Pretty dress," he says when Madge opens the door. Katniss fidgets next to him. He's angry and even as he stews, he knows his anger is misdirected. Katniss doesn't approve - he can tell by the way she bristles at his side. But he doesn't care. Reaping Day puts him in such a bad way that he literally stops thinking. He's pissed and somebody has to pay.

"Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don't I?" Madge answers sweetly, and he can't tell if she's being sincere or sarcastic.

"You won't be going to the Capitol," he retorts coolly. His eyes flicker towards the small circular pin with a bird holding an arrow. It's beautiful. And expensive. He narrows his eyes, grey glaring at blue.

"What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old.'

"That's not her fault," Katniss interjects.

"No, it's no one's fault. Just the way it is," he answers.

Madge's face closes off, becoming impassive. She turns and gives Katniss the money for the berries. "Good luck, Katniss."

"You too," Katniss answers, the door closing before the words are completely out of her mouth.

They return to the Seam in silence, Katniss brooding in her thoughts, Gale fairly simmering in his. He's so mad, he can spit. He knows, beneath the rage and self-righteousness, that it's not Madge's fault. She doesn't deserve it anymore than anyone else does. In fact, she's been nothing but kind to him, always trying to give him more for his trade than the goods are worth. But the system they live in is designed to drive citizens of each district apart, making enemies by creating some classes that are more privileged than another. She didn't ask to be a Merchant. As for Gale, this is his last reaping year, after which he'll get his mining assignment and work for a pittance under the earth. He didn't ask for that either.

He glances over at Katniss, who's face is like stone. When they reach the edge of the Seam, Gale and Katniss divide their spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each. "See you in the square," she say without looking at him.

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly to her back as she turns away.

Gale trudges back towards his small house, his thoughts still in disarray. He knows Katniss is angry at him and it makes him feel ashamed now of his words and actions. It doesn't change his mind about his basic feelings - he's shouted them enough in the woods to know what he thinks and how he feels about the whole system they live in. But he also knows that he should not have taken it out on Madge and it makes him feel worse the more the afternoon wears on.

As he helps his mother, Hazel, prepare the young ones for the Reaping, he ponders Madge's peculiar situation. Her father is the Mayor, appointed by the Capitol and as such, the most privileged person in the District. Her mother spends most of her time in bed, given to headaches that take her away from the world for days. Her twin sister, Maysilee Donner, was killed in the 50th Hunger Games, a particularly gruesome year in which double the number of tributes were reaped, a reminder by the Capitol that during the Dark Days, for every Capitol citizen who was killed, two rebels were also killed. Haymitch Abernathy, the local drunk, and two other tributes were reaped that year also. Haymitch and Maysilee became allies in the Arena for a time but just minutes after they separated, Maysilee was skewered in the neck by brightly colored birds and Haymitch had no choice but to hold her hand and watch her die.

It was obvious that Mrs. Undersee was hit hard by her sister's death, a condition she still hadn't recovered from. He imagines Mrs. Everdeen, and how much she suffered in the same way over her husband's death and Gale felt guilt descend on him, in addition to his anger.

"Aw, fuck," he mutters to himself as he gives his mom a vague excuse about having forgotten something in the center of town and promising to return in time to walk together to the square.

He makes his way through the streets of the Seam, where everything is more subdued than usual. It is always a solemn mood on Reaping Day, as parents take extra care to wash and dress their children, surreptitiously hugging on to them a little tighter, holding them a bit longer. There aren't any words for the collective breaths that are held by the parents of children of reaping age or the blanket of suspense that hangs heavy over the residents of District 12 at who would be the next tributes. Along with the premature grieving are the hushed tones of those who fear they are already conversing with ghosts.

Gale finds himself at the Mayor's back door. When he knocks, all that greets him is silence as it suddenly occurs to him that maybe the Mayor will have already gone ahead to prepare the festivities. If so, he may already be too late to speak to Madge.

Just as he is ready to abandon all hope that she will answer the door, Madge appears in the same exquisite dress. It is pretty, prettier than any dress he'd ever seen in the Seam, even prettier than the ones Mrs. Everdeen occasionally wears or forces Katniss to wear. Now that he is no longer irrationally angry, he can admire the finely curled golden locks of hair, the peaches and cream complexion and the clear, blue eyes that mark her definitively as Merchant - features that can be considered beautiful.

Madge wrinkles her brow at the sight of him, crossing her arms before her. "Did I short change-you?" she asks, eyeing him with obvious curiosity.

"No...I…" but Gale sputters to a stop. He was a simple personality to understand. He had mostly two modes - angry and annoyed - and didn't deal well with other subtleties of emotion, much less with expressing them.

"I just...I'm going out for more strawberries...after the Reaping," he stutters.

Madge crosses her arms and looked down her nose at him but says nothing. She is going to make him work for it - he can tell by the way she stares at him.

"I really...I was angry and I shouldn't have said what I said," he rushes the last part because _sorry_ was not a word he's used to using and was trying to avoid it now.

Madge still waits, her eyes inscrutable. He knows what for and the thought of saying the words makes his jaws want to lock into place. Still, he has no choice if he is going to do it right.

"I'm _sorry_. There. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have picked on you like that."

She tilts her head at this and nods. "You're right, you shouldn't have."

"Yeah…" he says weakly, putting his hands on his hips and looking up at her. "Like I said, I'm going out for more strawberries. I'll bring them and you can have them. You know, a peace offering," he sweeps his hand in front of him, as if he is actually handing the ripe fruit to her.

"Right," she says slowly, as if considering whether him a bit longer. "You could do that - if we're both still here when the Reaping's over."

Gale's eyes widen at her words, and the audacity with which she says them. "You can't...Don't even joke like that!"

"Well, you said it yourself, the odds are not in anyone's favor. They never are," she says, her eyes twinkling though her face is serious. "But if, by some crazy stroke of luck, they are in our favor, I'll be waiting for those strawberries."

Gale nods, not sure what to think, certainly not expecting mousy Madge to have any kind of spirit, certainly nothing like the one Katniss has. But she surprises him and he is not altogether displeased by this.

They part after, Madge to her family, Gale to his. He feels a little less horrible on a day that gives horrible a whole new meaning. And the events of the day would only confirm that the odds would never, ever be in his favor.

 **XXXXX**

After, when the train takes his best friend and the baker's son away to almost certain death, Gale goes first to Mrs. Everdeen and Prim and makes sure they know that he is there to take care of them. Mrs. Everdeen looks like she always does, like she is one puff of wind away from being knocked over. And then there's Prim, who wipes her tears away with stoicism, trying as hard as her little heart can to show the strength her sister had always shown.

Then Gale takes to the woods as fast as he can. He races through the trees, trying to outrun his rage but knowing he can't, and hoping only for the relief of mind-numbing exhaustion. When he slows, he is gasping and heaving, searching for air. He has long passed the spots where Katniss hides her bow and he's glad for that. He doesn't know if he can bear to see the part of her that she was forced to leave behind. He is well beyond his snares too, so his excursion is for naught except to force him to deal with Katniss' reaping alone, in the company of the forest.

If he had been furious before, he is murderous now and tears of rage escaped his eyes, which he wipes cruelly away, leaving a path of burnt skin from the rough treatment of his face. He snaps a branch, than several, flinging broken wood and loose stones into the murky depth of the woods, howling in fury as he searches for more things to break, more to destroy. He is not himself anymore but the physical expression of every crime, every loss, every abuse he has endured in his short but painful life, from the death of his father to the near starvation of his younger brothers and sisters, including the unbearable pressure of ensuring that their bellies are somewhat full. If he could have, he would have twisted a man's neck with his bare hands, just to feel the satisfaction of hearing it snap between his fingers.

When he wears himself out, he sits heavily on a boulder, looking out onto the valley. Katniss is out there, beyond the mountains, heading into the mouth of death and there is nothing, nothing he can do about it. He had her all the time by his side and it's only now, that she stands the best chance of never returning home, that he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he loves his hunting partner and best friend. Soon he will have to add her to the list of things that has been taken from him.

He casts a glance to a bird singing in a tree nearby and catches sight of a wild strawberry bush. The fruit is fat, in low clumps close to the ground under jagged, wide green leaves. He thinks of his visit to Madge's house and remembers the conversation as if it has occurred to someone else, in another life, beyond the foul memory of the Reaping ceremony. Katniss had been so angry at him for mistreating Madge and now, when he thinks that _that_ memory will be one of the last ones she will have of them before she goes into that Arena to die for the entertainment of the Capitol, it cramps his stomach and makes him want to cry like a baby.

He pulls out his knife and hunting sack and cuts into the stems, trying not to ruin the roots so the plant might yield its fruit again. He promised Madge strawberries and Madge is Katniss's friend. As much as his soul aches, he hates to break a promise and should probably head back home anyway before it gets dark. With a heavy heart, he hikes back to the fence and, ducking through it, heads with his stash to the Mayor's house again, the third time in one day. He scowls as he knocks, hoping she'll be quick so he can go home and be miserable in peace.

When she opens the door, Gale is taken aback by the look on her face. Her eyes are puffy from crying and even though she still wears the pretty white dress with ribbons, she no longer has her gold pin. He wrinkles his brow, wondering if maybe he shouldn't just come back later.

"Gale," she gasps, then steadies her voice by clearing her throat.

"I..uh..I promised you strawberries," Gale stammers. "But I could come back…"

She shakes her head, sniffling to clear her nose. "No, don't. I'll take them," she says, reaching for her money bag.

"No…" he says, protesting. "These aren't for sale. They're for you."

Madge purses her lips together but clearly, she is in no mood for a fight. She motions for him to come inside, which he refuses with a curt shake of his head.

"Come on. Mom's in bed and Dad is out, visiting folks. It's okay," she says.

He steps inside like a feral cat entering a house for the first time. His quick, grey eyes take in the kitchen, which is larger, shinier and fancier than anything he's seen. The only time he's seen a kitchen like that was when him and his friends broken into one of the empty houses in Victor's Village one time, on a dare. When a similar break-in happened later on and the kids who were caught disappeared, Gale decided never to do that again.

Madge indicates a seat at the kitchen island before turning to the sink and rinsing the berries. With quick hands, she takes a paring knife and expertly cuts out the green stems, leaving the taut, red fruit virtually intact. She rummages in her refrigerator and finds a small bowl that she brings to the counter where she also places two plates and two small forks.

"Whipped cream. I made it this morning. On Reaping Day, dad lets me eat whatever I want so I asked for pancakes and whipped cream. That's terribly decadent, isn't it?" she says, settling into the chair with an air of defeat. "It's no wonder you hate us so much."

Gale stiffens at her words but he has to admit - they could rarely afford a delicacy such as pancakes - baking soda and yeast were simply too dear to purchase. But he can also appreciate the sentiment of wanting to let your children enjoy whatever they can on what might be their last day at home. What he hates is beyond them, what pits everyone against each other, the thing that has taken Katniss away, the monster that will force him to watch her die on television and never have her home again.

He knows better than to speak against the Capitol in the very house of the Mayor - he's sure the house is bugged. Madge places a spoonful of the whipped cream onto his plate. He stares at the confection, not even remembering how long it's been since he's had the soft, white, frothy treat. He tries not to scoop the whole thing and stuff it in his face, instead taking deliberate care to spear his strawberry with the small fork and eat it with the same dainty slowness as Madge.

The first thing he thinks when the cream hit his tongue is, Katniss should be here to try this. It makes his throat close up suddenly and he finds it hard to swallow the bit of strawberry he's now chewing. He's in the clouds over the combined taste of the strawberries and cream but his stomach sours because he remembers again that she's gone. The strawberries turn to ash and the cream shrivels to smoke. He sets the fork down and shakes his head.

Madge watches him, but he dares not look up into her eyes. He is teetering on the edge of insanity again as the reality of Katniss's absence makes itself known. He curls his fist next to his fork, the only weapon he has ever been allowed to carry. This is a mistake and he should leave at once, before he gives in to a terrible urge to break everyone and everything that surrounds him…

As if a bird has landed on his hand, he feels Madge's touch and sees her pale, unlined hand resting over his. Without willing it, the tension drains, like a plant salve that draws poison from a wound. She gives him a squeeze, which forces his eyes finally to her face, now reddened as tears escape her otherwise impassive expression. There are inscrutable things written in her eyes, things he does understand - grief, impotence and a certain longing that is at once familiar, yet more profound than anything he's ever seen in the eyes of other girls in the District, whose eyes that had assessed him and found him desireable. He had certainly never seen it in Katniss's eyes.

Madge is a glass lake with springs and he knows instinctively that there are torrents beneath those waters that he would never, in a hundred years, uncover.

He's never felt skin so soft and the sensation mingles with the smell of strawberries to sear his memory of that moment forever. He would never, ever think of Madge again without remembering the smell of strawberries and the feel of her soft hand on his; not after, when his District lay under a bed of ashes, and her buried with it; not in the middle of the blood and bullet-drenched snow, as he hears the parachutes he'd designed lay waste to the lives of hundreds of innocent children; nor further on, when he's finally in District 2, meditating on his life during the coldest night of year, wondering how he would ever, ever tolerate the sight of himself again, wondering if this girl would have ever forgiven the unspeakable force he had unleashed on the Capitol that day, when a lifetime of fury blew in like a hurricane and broke the last human thing he had left inside of him.

He would never, ever think of Madge again without thinking of this moment, without wondering what would have changed if he had turned around the night fire rained from the sky and found a way to get her out. Would his life have turned out so empty? Would he have had the heart to seal a mountain full of men without once considering that his father had died the very same way? Would he have finally listened to Katniss? Would it have mattered less to his heart that his hunting partner had come to love the son of a baker with the same desperation with which he'd released her that day in the Justice building, the day she left and changed every single life in Panem forever after?

For a moment, he allows Madge to comfort him. And many other moments after, while Katniss battles for her life on the giant screens of the town center and the tiny ones forced into each and every home, even the Seam. And he would always obsess, to the very end of his days, after all was set on fire and burned away, what that day could have meant for them both had the odds been just a little bit more in their favor.


	10. The Mass of Angels

**Banner by the akai-echo**

 **The Mass of the Angels by titania522**

 **Rated T**

 _ **Militiae species amor est**_

 _ **(Love is a kind of warfare)**_

 _ **-from**_ **Ars Amatoria** _ **, Ovid**_

 _ **13th Century AD**_

"Who goes there!" she shouted in her fiercest voice.

"Sister, we are soldiers just returned from Jerusalem. We seek refuge," answered Commander Odair.

"We have heard the rumors of Crusaders who sought refuge in other monasteries and pillaged them instead. How can I be sure your men will not behave in the same base manner?" the Prioress answered through the slide-hatch.

Despite the darkness outside and the diminutive size of the small hole, Mother Superior Sae saw the Commander go down on bended knee. "I swear, on behalf of myself and my men, on the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, that we will bring no harm to you or your order. We offer our swords in fealty and the protection of our bodies in honor of our oath." He kissed his sword. "Please, Mother, we have wounded men!"

Sister Madge looked for direction from Mother Superior Sae, the Prioress of the older woman gently pulled Madge away from the men clamoring on the other side. "Sister Madge, gather the younger nuns and see them to the safety of the cellars. Wake Sister Lavigna and bring her to me. May God keep us all," the older woman crossed herself. "Who would be so wicked as to defile us on the night of the birth of our Lord?"

Sister Madge understood the gravity of the Mother Superior's request. By their holy vows, they could not decline assistance to those who asked, even soldiers who had returned with the blood of men on their hands. Especially, those men who had fought in Jerusalem in the name of the Savior. However there were tales of pillage and rape from other convents. They did well to be cautious, especially with the novitiates, many of whom had been left in the nunnery by wealthy parents who would retrieve their daughters when they were of marrying age. It was as much an investment as a moral obligation that Mother Superior Sae protected.

Madge herself was only an initiate and had not taken her vows yet. She was not one of the fortunate girls who had a wealthy family waiting to marry her off. She had been sent here upon the death of her parents, with what little wealth remained to her, by the hand of her uncle Coriolanus Snow, who had seized her family's estate, one of the largest in Panem, and dispensed with the young doweress by banishing her to a nunnery. She would become a nun, tasked with protecting those privileged ones who would soon have their freedom by marriage. She would tend the men alongside Mother Superior Sae, for her lot would be to reside here for the rest of her days. She would not be hidden away among the other jewels of the monastery.

Madge soon returned with Sister Lavinia, after having herded the younger novitiates to the hidden cellar that Mother Superior had fashioned for their protection. She led the older nun, still bleary-eyed from sleep, through the vestibule, following the sounds of talking men into the hospital. The hearth had been lit and was being stoked to warm the room, frozen with the chill of winter. Mother Superior had prevailed upon the able-bodied men to bring more hay from the hay loft to further pad and warm the pallets used to tend to the sick and destitute.

There were ten men in total, four of whom were wounded. Madge scurried to the Prioress's side where she had already begun tending the wounds of one soldier, a man with hair the color of fire. He bit down on a strip leather as the older nun washed and dressed one of several festering wounds, removing the stitches that were virtually sealed into the swollen and crusted skin.

"These men were treated on the battlefield and removed directly by ship. They have received poor attention at best," Commander Odair commented to Mother Superior.

"It is a wonder they survived the voyage at all," said the older nun, struggling with cutting the string used to repair the young soldier's wounds. "Sister Madge, tend the young man near the hearth. His wound is infected also." She raised a finger to tuck a loose blond curl that had escaped the hood of Madge's habit, tsk-tsking under her breath before returning to her labors. Not having taken her vows yet, Madge still possess the luminous blond hair that had been so well complimented on when she still lived in her village, hair that would be shorn the moment her vow to wed God and the Church was sealed. Madge pushed the feeling of discontent away. There was no sense in mourning what could not be changed.

Madge adjusted her habit and made her way to the young man lying quietly near the fire. It was so cold on this Christmastide that the heat of the hearth dissipated quickly. Even so, his visible shaking was likely the result of a high fever.

She crossed herself before kneeling next to the soldier. He was not much older than her - maybe two or three years, though it was hard to tell from the dirt and grime that covered his face. She fetched a washcloth and water that was already heating on the stones of the hearth, carefully wiping the dirt from his face and neck. He was tall one, it was obvious from the length of his limbs, and well muscled. His hands spoke of one who had spent many a day in the fields.

"Sir, I am here to care for your wounds. Tell me, where are you hurt?" she asked in a voice barely higher than a whisper.

He opened his eyes and she was arrested by their virtually colorless nature. They were grey and wide-set in rugged features including a strong nose and full lips. His look was handsome yet fierce at the same time and Madge couldn't help but feel intimidated by him.

She was interrupted in her study of him when he shifted his chainmail, lifting it to reveal a deep flesh wound to the left of his belly button. She covered her mouth to keep from choking on the stench of illness. The young knight, an astute observer from the way his crystal eyes moved about her face, grimaced at her reaction.

"It only looks terrible," he quipped.

"More than just looks, Sir," she blurted out, clapping her hand over her mouth.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest. "You have a rare gift for comfort."

"My apologies," Madge answered, the sting of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks. She selected herbs that might draw out the disease and mixed them in a bowl until she had a paste. With a small prayer, she carefully cleaned the wound, removing as much of the disease as she could from the gash in his side. However, to really clean it, she would need to get the shiny, swollen skin to lose its tautness.

"It was a sword," he said at length between grunts of pain.

"It had occurred to me, sir," she said as she continued to apply the paste, hoping it would be strong enough to draw out the pus and reduce the swelling. "Have you eaten?"

The knight, whose eyes had fluttered shut, opened, foggy with exhaustion and pain. He simply shook his head.

"I will bring soup and spirits to ease your hunger," she said, preparing to gather her habit and hurry off to the kitchen when he tapped her sleeve.

"Sister, forgive me but what is your name?" he asked with parched lips.

"Madge. Sister Madge. And yours?" she responded and could not help that her voice shook.

"Gale. Of Hawthorne."

Madge froze. Hawthorne was one of the fiefdoms of her family's lands, lands now held by Lord Snow in the Kingdom of Panem. She remembered only a local metal smith of the same name in her village and came to the conclusion that Gale of Hawthorne was one of her late father's people.

 **XXXXX**

Madge made haste to where the other sisters scurried about, preparing a meal for the men who had arrived at their doorstep. She nearly dropped her flask of ale, slowing only to take a deep breath. Initially she shook with fear at the arrival of the bloodied and battle-worn men on Christ's Mass. But now that she realized he was also one of her countrymen, she thought she'd arrived at understanding why she was now so affected by the appearance of the knight called Gale.

She made the sign of the cross, a compulsion she'd taken up from the nuns around her. It was soothing, though she was often at pains to truly understand her purpose or place in the world. She did not see God in every corner and was inclined to believe that those who called on him the most were the ones least inclined to be moved by him in their actions. Her life had been riddled by these kinds of doubts and she promptly signed herself again at the near blasphemous turn of her thoughts.

Returning to her patient, she settled onto a small pallet next to him. Careful not to burn him, she spooned the soup, which had been made with clumps of softening bread floating among winter greens and softened, dried beef. He immediately lost something of his grey pallor, though his fever still ran far too high for Madge's comfort. She loosened his wool shirt, cooling the burning skin with a cold towel, and gave him tea made with herbs to cool the heat coming off of his flesh.

As she cared for him, he studied her in silence, discomfiting her with his attentions. When she thought she could no longer bear his scrutiny any longer, he gave her relief by speaking to her again, "You seem familiar. How do you find yourself here in such a distant convent?" Gale asked suddenly.

"It was not my choice," she said with uncharacteristic candor, for why she should reveal herself to anyone, much less a wandering soldier? And yet the compulsion was more powerful than her modesty, especially given his antecedents. "My parents died and I had no other relatives and no wealth," she did not share her misfortune at the hands of her uncle.

"And you?" she asked, applying cool cloths to his forehead again, surveying his still inflamed wound.

"I fight for the Cross, under the decree of our Lord and Savior in protection of his land and his people," he said.

She nodded slowly. He was a true believer. Many soldiers went to fight in the far east for adventure, gold and wealth. She saw the common quality of his armor and the lack of jewelry of any kind. It was clear he was not of noble stock and if he did not fight for wealth, he must be one who fought for faith.

"You are brave, Sir Gale. May God bless your sacrifice," she said, bowing to him as she pulled the empty cups away and worked to check the wound in his side, pleased that the paste had drawn down some of the swelling . He flinched at the pain, which provoked a powerful pity in her.

"I must open the wound and remove the pus. I am sorry, but it will hurt. Here," she handed him a strap of leather similar to the one the Red man had used when Mother Sae tended his wounds. Gale took it and bit down on it, nodding to indicate he was ready. The salve she had used had drained out the wound and lowered the swelling a bit but she would have to open and clean it herself for it to drain completely. That would be painful for him and it would try the limits of her stomach.

She gave Gale a generous serving of heavy spirits to ease his discomfort before she began her work. She cut the poorly-stitched wound, pulling the sides apart, and cleaned the pus and gore. The knight was a stoic, biting down on his leather but refusing to cry out, though his face was red and his neck bulged with the effort to repress his agony. Madge worked as quickly as she could, washing and cleaning the wound thoroughly, then applying another salve for inflammation and stitched it, this time hoping she would not have to redress the wound any further.

When she was done, Gale was sweating, from the pain and his valiant attempts at endurance so that she might work. He was still feverish and it worried her so. Madge should have gone to check on other patients, perhaps relieve the older nuns of their duties but she reasoned that the tops of his pink cheeks and the fine sheen of sweat that blossomed over his skin demanded that she stay close by, at least until his fever broke.

 **XXXXX**

The bell struck nine in the belfry, startling Madge from where she'd dozed off against a column. She looked around and heard the hushed voices of the Commander speaking to Mother Superior Sae, discussing accommodations for the non-wounded soldiers. But she could not really attend the conversation between them because the low sound of mumbling drew her attention away. She realized Gale was talking in his sleep and touched his forehead, which was on fire now.

Madge leapt to her feet and strode purposefully towards Mother Superior, waiting with barely repressed impatience for the older woman to acknowledge her.

"Yes, Sister Madge."

"My...Sir Hawthorne. His fever is very high. I would like to give him an ice bath."

"Indeed...It may be his best chance Very well, I will help you gather the snow. Commander, if you will excuse us..."

"If I may," Commander Odair interjected. "I will assist you. I am deeply grateful for your care of my men."

Madge nodded as the Prioress thanked the Commander. She wasted no time in fetching two large, wooden bowls from the kitchen and leading the tall Knight to the courtyard. She glanced at him. He was tall - though she was sure Gale was taller - and handsome, with eyes as green as the sea. These men were tired and battle-worn but well cared for by their Commander. He took a torch from the corridor to light the way and knelt onto the ground to help Madge gather snow.

"I thank you, Sister Madge, for your care of Sir Hawthorne. He is a brave warrior and a man of high principles. It would be a pity to lose him to a sword wound."

"Indeed, sir, it is my duty. All thanks must go to our Lord," she said properly, though inside, she was beaming with pride.

"Still, I am grateful. He is of a particularly stout moral construction, hard-earned by a difficult life and loyal to his comrades. He is one of my best soldiers and most valiant companions."

Madge nodded, having received little attention of anyone of her rank since her days in her father's house. She missed the communion very much, though she was of a shy disposition herself. It also gave her a peculiar pleasure to hear of the young man described in such a positive manner, as if confirming some inner conclusion she had already reached. She felt pride by proxy for the wounded man who lay inside.

When they returned with the ice, she noticed that Gale seemed to have gotten worse during the short interval she'd gone away. His skin was flushed and his lips were chapped. When she touched his forehead, it scalded her hand. She glanced up at her companion.

"Commander, I will require your assistance in undressing him," she said by way of request.

"Yes, Sister," he said, untying and removing what remained of Gale's armor. She observed the rough quality of his shirt that spoke of his poverty. He was a knight, there was no doubt of that, but he did not come from a wealthy family. His interiors spoke of modest means and frequent mending, even by his own hand. Madge cleared her throat as Commander Odair removed his thin shirt to reveal a broad, powerful chest. The skin was smooth except where there was the occasional pucker of battle scars. A smattering of brown curls decorated his chest and created a trail down his powerful stomach. She tried to be discreet but her eyes had a will of their own as she followed the path of dark hair until they were interrupted by the tops of his soft cotton britches, as thin as a lady's shift. She found herself out of breath suddenly and shook her head of all thoughts except for the challenge of Gale's fever.

When she stuffed the first handful of snow around his body, he gasped, opening his eyes. They were lost in feverish delirium but the cold had brought him briefly to consciousness. His eyes seemed to search, stopping only when they fell on Madge. She tilted her head, giving him her most serene expression in answer to his confusion.

"Your fever is very high, Sir. I must pack your body with snow to cool you. I am sorry, it will be uncomfortable."

Gale frowned as he struggled to keep his eyes open. "I am afraid you are an expert in discomfort, Sister."

Madge leaned back on her haunches, feeling indignant at the jibe. "Your life is my greatest concern, Sir. Your comfort is secondary only to this purpose. Pain is not to be escaped at all costs, for it would do little for our characters to seek only physical comfort."

Gale's head lolled on his pillow. "Indeed. I would gladly take pain at your hands above pleasure at the hands of any other."

His eyes fluttered shut and he drifted away again. Madge was left speechless, pressing more snow until the floor became puddled with the water melting from the heat of Gale's body. He had been shockingly bold and unreserved, which had offended her sensibilities as a nun. She was not to be courted in such a manner, not even by a Templar Knight.

However, beneath her indignation was another feeling, one akin to the pleasure he described. It was a thrill that electrified her heavy limbs and tired hands. Her fingers were numb with cold and her knees hurt from the excessive pressure of kneeling against the hard stone floor but adrenaline now coursed through her body. She was exhausted physically but she would not be able to sleep, thinking of Gale's words.

 **XXXXX**

Father Abernathy was sent for by Mother Superior Sae from the nearby monastery. He made his rounds as the night wore on, visiting with the men and, in two cases, delivering the last rights to a pair of knights who appeared to have one foot already in Paradise. It saddened the hearts of the nuns, for these men, in particular under the direction of Commander Odair, had demonstrated their honor and trust, and were quite esteemed in their eyes as warriors and men of God. The loss of even one would be a cause of great mourning for the Sisters who had cared for them.

As Gale shivered, Madge covered him with a blanket before drying the ground beneath him. Father Abernathy stopped before his cot, signing over him and examining his condition as best he could.

"How is he?" he asked Madge.

"He is not as feverish as before but he still burns," she answered with the proper obeisance. Gale, whom she knew to be conscious, lay immobile except for the occasional shiver from his fever and she wondered at his subterfuge. Still, his fever worried her as she could not bathe him in snow again, for it could possibly complicate his injury with the addition of a catarre.

Father Abernathy nodded, blessing the young man three times before moving onto the next soldier.

Madge, meanwhile, with the help of some of his stronger companions, including Commander. Odair, transferred Gale to a dry cot, resting the damp one near the hearth to dry. The jostling roused him and he searched the air frantically until his eyes come to rest on her again.

"You have not...flown away, Angel of Light," he slurred softly.

"I am no angel, sir. I am Sister Madge, of the order of our Lady of St. Catherine. How do you feel?" she asked.

Gale shook his head, as if his personal comfort hardly mattered. "I must...make a confession, Sister," he said.

Madge was puzzled. The priest had returned to the chapelle to make special preparations for the Angel's Mass this evening. It would be nothing to call Father Abernathy back and to hear Gale's confession but, though he was in a bad way, she did not expect him to require his last rights. "Sir, perhaps you are too hasty. You are only feverish but your wound is clean and you do not appear to be afflicted with black humors in your blood…"

"Sister, not a priest. I do not...feel myself at death's door yet," he licked his lips and Madge brought a cup of water to him.

"You knew Father Abernathy was here, didn't you? You could have requested a confession from him then," she scolded gently.

He did not answer, sipping the cool liquid before laying back and looking at her with drowsy eyes. "My confession...is only for you. I must make...amends to you."

She shook her head, her habit rustling from the movement. "You have in no way offended me. I must insist you rest and not tire yourself with unnecessary talk."

"No," he said, firmly but gently. "I have...misrepresented myself. If I die, you must know...that I am not a knight of...high birth, I am not a noble"

"It hardly matters, to me or to anyone else. You will not die, so do not speak such things. Please rest," she pleaded, having already guessed that he was not wealthy.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I left...my home when I presented myself...in the service of the estate of...Coriolanus Snow at the end...of my family's indenture…"

Madge straightened in her chair, forgetting his weakened condition. "Snow? Did you say you were a servant of Lord Snow? " she repeated dumbly. She listened more carefully to him as he spoke.

"Yes. I sought to...escape my village. Snow requested men...to send into battle as part of his...obligation to the King. I was...squired to Commander Odair, who...knighted me after two years of fealty."

"Why do you confess this to me?" Madge asked, dumbfounded by the connection between them.

"Because, Sister...I told you I had gone to Jerusalem to fight Saladin...out of love of our Lord and Savior. It was a lie and I feel I cannot...I cannot lie to you."

Madge shook her head, smiling sadly at the young man, sure the fever was rising and taking his reason away. "That is hardly something I would concern myself with. If it weighs on your heart, you may confess to Father Abernathy on the morrow…"

Gale chuckled, the sound warm and sonorous in the still room. Sister Lavinia cast a glance towards Madge as she held her own vigil for a young man who was badly wounded and had lost much blood on the journey to the nunnery. Madge shrugged, as if to imply that Gale spoke without sense, which to some degree, she believed.

"I do not...need a confession, at least...not now. I will...see to that later," he said firmly, drawing her eyes back to his face as he peered up at her. "There was a...girl in my village, a girl I had...spent my...childhood with."

She sat up straighter when he said this, unable now to turn her attention to anything else. A girl? And why did it surprise her that a handsome man like him would have a paramour?

"I loved her...very much. I intended on...marrying her when my...apprenticeship with my father ended, together with our...servitude. We would be...free as a family and I would be free...to take a wife and work with my father as a blacksmith," he shook his head, a sad smile on his face.

"What happened?" she blurted out, blushing from her sudden, unhindered curiosity.

He licked his lips again and Madge, remembering herself, fetched him his water. After he had swallowed several sips, he continued. "It was...not to be. She fell in love...with the son of the baker and married him instead."

So that was it. Love thwarted. Madge listened to enough stories of courtly romances from the troubadours who traveled, singing tales of love and valor throughout the kingdoms, and should have anticipated the resolution of his story. How many times had a tale like this one been sung by the minstrels of her town? Madge clutched her habit closer to her, as if it would shield her from the world's caprices and, most importantly, her own. He loved another and it had driven him far from home.

"The boy had...gone into battle but lost both his...eldest brother and his leg in a...campaign in Spain, so he returned within the year...The girl's mother is the village healer...and took her daughters with her...to treat his leg wound. That is how they...deepened their connection," Gale continued, lost in reminiscing. "He will...inherit the father's...bakery so she will never do without. This is what...I said to comfort myself," he wiped his face, his eyes lost in a memory she no longer wanted to be privy to, "The only real...reason for her...change in affections is that he...knew how to love her well... better than I did."

Madge sat quietly, uncomfortable with his evident unhappiness and her own sense of disillusion, though she could not say at what. She only knew that his story, a story that was so common, gave her a particularly intimate kind of unhappiness.

"So when their...betrothal was...announced, I went directly...to Lord Snow and placed myself at his service. I was immediately...squired to Commander Odair and we set out the very fortnight to liberate Jerusalem...I have not been home since."

Madge nodded slowly, overwhelmed by his story. To her, unrequited love was one of the saddest conditions, for there was no cure for the endless longing for a person who could never be won. The experience of love was one of the many things she was forced to renounce. She would never experience it as a nun.

Not wishing to think further on the rest of her life, she took a cold towel and pressed it against his head. He was quite warm again and she was at pains to search for a solution. She had tried everything. She also felt heavy at Gale's tale and could do nothing more than tend him as she thought about his words..

As she wiped the errant drops of water that raced down the sides of his face and ended on the bedding beneath him, he watched her carefully, searching perhaps for a sign or maybe, pondering something deep in his memory. There was no way for her to be sure but he spoke as if he was not carried by fever. He had given her his confidence and, in consequence, she confided her tale in him.

"I, too, must make a confession," she said carefully. "I am from the same town as you. Lord Snow - he is my uncle. My father was the Lord of his estate before his death."

"Lord Undersee?" he said, his eyes suddenly focused, peering into her face with an intensity that almost made her wither. She simply nodded before it.

"Yes! Your father...died six months...before my departure from Panem," his face lit up in recognition though he panted with exhaustion. "Lady Madge! How could I have not...seen it before," he said, enthusiasm animating him despite his weakness. "But you were very young. Your family's tale...is also a tragic one...I am so very sorry," he turned his head away to stare at the flames, the burst of enthusiasm suddenly draining away, leaving him limp.

Madge thought he might have fallen back to sleep but was surprised by his voice. "It would seem...none of us are here because of the strength of our faith."

She chuckled, shaking her head. Admitting to another that her presence here was instrumental, even if not by her choice, was a relief so great, she felt heady from it. "No, Sir, you are not the only one moved by circumstances other than faith to join the army of God."

Gale closed his eyes in exhaustion but a small smile lingered on his face. He was well on his way to sleep, his words slurred. "Would it be...blasphemy to say...that I find more relief...in confessing to you than to the...priest of my village?"

Pulling the rough-hewn blanket to cover him to his shoulders, Madge brushed a loose lock of dark hair from his moist forehead. Fire. He was pure fire and she feared her prayers for him would not be pure enough to be heard among so many on the eve of the Lord's birth. "Perhaps. But you are in good company, my friend. Now rest so you may finally return to the comfort of your family." A comfort, she added, that she herself would never experience again.

 **XXXXX**

The midnight bells rang. There was a general commotion as the nuns, having been roused from their rest, scurried to the monastery to attend the Angel's Mass. Some of the older nuns appeared to relieve those who had been working with the sick but Madge demurred, even though she was one of the sopranos in the choir and was skilled at the harpsichord. She explained to Sister Leevy that she would remain by his side until his fever broke, that she wouldn't dream of burdening her sisters. Sister Leevy, appearing only too relieved to not serve at the feet of wretched, wounded men, left with barely restrained relief to attend the midnight mass.

Madge continued to wipe Gale's forehead as his fever appeared to worsen. He mumbled, caught in a trance of illness. He was both wet with perspiration and shivering from the cold. Madge had never seen a fever so high and fetched another bucket of snow, even though she risked giving him a cold or a chill that could be worse than the fever.

Gale spoke, flailing and convulsing, but only weakly, for his body was ravaged by fire and illness. At times, he opened his eyes and peered into hers, both seeing and not seeing her as his mind wandered its secret places. Madge wanted to call him back from the memories he was lost in, memories that thrashed him in his weakened state and tortured him while he fought for his body, his mind, and his very life.

She heard the faint sounds of the choir singing in the chapelle and it made her heart want to soar. It was one of the few things she truly loved about her life in the convent - she loved singing in the choir. The music tugged at her heart, making her want to rise and join her sisters. But there was also Gale, of Hawthorne, thrashing in heat, wounded from battle because he could not bear to see the girl he loved marry another and chose to leave and offer his life in battle instead. Madge had bound herself to his side and would not soon leave him, no matter the impetus.

As the voices rose to sing the lonely strains of _Ave Maria_ , Madge watched his illness peak, held him down as the tremors wracked his body and bathed him as best she could in cold towels and ice from the outside. She knew real fear, like the fear she felt the day she was called before Snow and banished from her family's home, and thought how stupid and cruel she had been not to call Father Abernathy to relieve the young man of his soul's burdens once and for all eternity. At that moment, she knelt by the side of his cot and prayed as she had never prayed before, asking God to excuse her indifference and her doubts, not because they had gone away, but because even despite them, her patient needed more than what she could give. Wasn't being good and faithful to one another just as important as dogma? Didn't self-sacrifice and kindness matter as much as the habit and chants that mark a holy person from one who is not. She knew if this young man died, she would never forgive herself, for it would haunt her all the days of her life. She prayed over and over, for him and for the other wounded until she was exhausted. She curled back onto her mat and continued her vigil, like a hound at its master's feet.

 **XXXXX**

Finally, long after the convent had gone silent, the fever that wracked his body slowly subsided. Madge, who had unwittingly dozed off, opened her sleepy eyes to find him in a deep slumber, free of the thrashing and mindless talking that had accompanied his battles. She rose to stoke the fires of the hearth and collected an extra coverlet for her bed. She carefully washed the sweat from his face and neck, barely receiving a low moan in response before he lapsed into the restorative rest of a disease-free sleep. Madge raised her face to the giant cross that hung on the wall, now glowing from the light of the fire she'd just stoked. Crossing herself and bowing her head, she whispered her thanks and promised to fast for the next seven days in gratitude for the miracle of the young soldier's life and, with the serenity that comes with fulfilled wishes, fell into a deep sleep of her own.

 **XXXXX**

The convent woke to the light of first morning on the day of Christ's Mass, to a flurry of terror and delight. The wounded knights who had been received the evening before by the order of Lady Catherine of Panem were on their feet, their fevers dissipated. Even more dramatic was the discovery that all the wounds borne by the men had been miraculously healed, even the nicks and scars of of those who were considered able-bodied and whole. Commander Odair was called to examine the very men he had had to carry in the night before, some at the end of their lives and could not believe his eyes. He called on Sister Sae, who in turned called Father Abernathy to confirm what their eyes could not believe.

"It is an act of God. Our Lord has visited us and healed our sick. We must dedicate this day to holy reflection and prayer for the miracle that he has seen fit to deliver to us. In the evening, we will feast in holy celebration. Commander Odair, you and your men are invited to remain until the Epiphany before returning to your homes."

Commander Odair looked at the faces of his men, filled with awe for what had occurred but also acute homesickness at the thought that they might not be able to leave until twelfth night. He turned and bowed before Father Abernathy. "Father, the Sisters of this holy house have shown us nothing but kindness and Christian charity. Many of these men have not seen home for years and we are but a day's ride from most of their villages. We must thank you for your invitation but we will remain only for this evening's festivities and depart on the morrow, with your blessing."

Father Abernathy nodded in understanding. "Join us for supper and you may have my blessing on your journey home to your families."

Commander Odair bowed, while the Knights all appeared visibly relieved. Soon, their long tour would finally be at an end.

Madge, who listened quietly in the vestibule, watched Gale as he examined his wounds and those of his companions. She resisted the urge to weep openly, for joy at his wholeness - he was indeed, a very tall and striking man - and sadness at his imminent departure. For one night, she had lived entirely and completely for another and had been willing to bargain almost anything for his health and well-being. Now that it was over, she would never forget those hours of vigil and intense focus. It left her bereft, for she was sure she would never feel that way again.

As he conversed with his fellow knights', Gales clear grey eyes appeared to search the room, over the heads of the Sisters and monks who had descended from the nearby Monastery. Madge had the intuition that perhaps he searched for her. But it was pointless to let herself be found. There was the remainder of the day and the feast of Christmas Day and then she would bid him farewell and throw herself into the remainder of her days, laboring in every way to forget the knight she had so passionately attended.

 **XXXXX**

Madge spent the better part of the day, evading the gentlemen who were now cured and no longer in need of her direct care. She assisted in the kitchens, preparing the evening meal. She was despondent - it had been a spectacular miracle, one that filled her with humility, for she was at pains to explain how it had occurred. She began her fast right away, sipping only water as she worked, rendering her labours in the kitchen a particular kind of torture for her. But she had made a promise and though it likely had nothing to do with what had taken place the night before, she had more cause than ever to be scrupulous in her beliefs and practice, if only in gratitude for the life of the knight.

She tried with all her might to banish the thought of her former charge from her mind. She was overjoyed by his recuperation, so much so that it filled her with a dizzying wildness that she had to repress from her words and actions. She could not give vent to her ecstasy and set about drowning that madness with endless chores, as many as she could complete.

So it was with heartstopping shock that she met the very object of her distraction in a turn behind the pantries of the kitchen, as if he were lying in wait, like a snare ready to spring closed. Her arms were filled with potatoes that she'd gathered from the cellar but upon catching sight of Sir Hawthorne leaning against the damp, stone wall, she came to a complete stop, nearly dropped the entire bushel.

"Sister," he dipped his head towards her in greeting.

"Sir Hawthorne," she said breathlessly, craning her head to catch a glimpse of his face before dropping her eyes to the ground. "It is good to see you well."

"Yes," he said, fidgeting with his riding gloves. They were made of soft, well-worn leather. "Indeed, it is is completely…" he searched for the words, "unbelievable, given the state we were in," he said, measuring each word as if he were doling sugar out to a child. Madge's heart raced with embarrassment, though at what, she could not be sure.

"I wanted to thank you but you've been gone since morning," he stepped away from the wall and faced her completely.

"I've been very busy with this evening's meal," she answered in response to what felt like an accusation on his part.

"Indeed," he said. Her nerves prickled with the impression that he did not quite believe her but she maintained her impassive expression. "I can't help but think, however, that you have lied to me."

"Lied?" Madge exclaimed, taken aback.

"Yes, Sister. You are not a person, but an Angel. And had you not tended me last night," he said, stepping forward so that he was directly in front of her. She would not cower but she did grip her bushel of potatoes closer to her chest, "Had you not been so determined to cure me of my fever, I, for one, would not be here today."

"It was a miracle! I cannot control such things. Pray, are you quite well, Sir?"

"I am in excellent health, thanks to you. Father Abernathy thinks we brought God's favor with us but he sees without understanding," he tucked his gloves into a pocket beneath his riding vest. "We traveled and brought nothing but death and destruction in our wake. The first thing, the only good thing that we found on our journey was this abbey. God led me to your hand and by your hand, I am whole/" He was within inches of her now, the only thing keeping him from reaching her altogether were the potatoes, for which she was infinitely grateful, for she had never been so close to a man before in any other capacity except for a healing one..

"Whether by my hand or by another, God's miracles are his own, to bestow as he pleases."

"They are. But I will thank you anyway, for if he did his work, he did it through you. No one will credit you but you held vigil the entire night. In my memories, I hear your voice, calling me back from heaven's light, begging me to stay. And I listened to you. I stayed. There is no other explanation but that you brought this onto us all. I owe you a debt that would take a lifetime to repay."

Sister Madge was mesmerized by his words, by the way he said them. She watched his mouth formed around each syllable, the sound his voice as it captured and spoke them. She appeared riveted by his speech but it was the movement of his mouth that captivated her. He would leave and go back to her home, their home and would she retain in her memory the physical perfection of his mouth in motion, engaged in speaking, not to anyone but to her. She pushed the sudden sadness aside and instead, bowed her head. "I will accept your thanks, but it was my duty and I was only too happy to do it."

Gale seemed to struggle with a decision, a suspense he held in the taut lines of his body that seemed to reached toward her, though he remained firmly in place. He, too, had fixed his sharp eyes on her but after several long moments, he made an internal choice and leaned away from her.

"Very well, I depart before the feast. If I ride quickly, I will be at my village by this evening and I wish nothing more than to return to my home."

"Don't!" she burst out without thinking, dropping her bushel when she raised her hand, as if to stop him. The potatoes cascaded onto the floor, rolling away from them in every direction. The shock of their fall caused her to bend quickly and catch the escaping buds but he captured her elbow and kept her immobile. He lost the guarded look and what replaced it was feral, terrifying in its intensity. Her heart slammed in her ribcage as with his other hand, he pulled the coif and veil from her head. There was a squeal of shock as her thick, blonde hair tumbled in waves from its confinement. Gale's eyes widened at the sight of her extraordinary hair, lying wild and tangled like like a cape around her shoulders.

"What...how dare you?" she gasped as he released her.

Her surveyed her, a hunger she had never seen on a person suffusing his features before he schooled them again, swallowing as if he had not tasted water in days. "You have not taken your vows yet."

"No, sir, I have not," she answered in a tremulous voice, gathering her hair and holding her hand out to him. "I am only just arrived in the fall. My veil, please," she said, her fury mounting.

He broke his trance finally, looking down at the fabric he held in his hand as if he could not fathom how it had gotten there. He handed it back to Madge, who snatched it up and adjusted herself so she would not be so indecent before him.

"Sister, I…"

"Farewell, Sir Hawthorne," Madge answered abruptly, her nerves in as much disarray as the dusty potatoes that now lay scattered about the hallway.

Gale bent to collect the few that had rolled near him, placing them quietly inside of the sack. When she had secured them in her burlap sack, she stood and, without another word, whirled around and stalked away, anywhere but in the direction where he still stood. His audacity had so mortified her, she broke into a sudden run, hurtling away from the preposterous illusion of Gale Hawthorne and towards the reality of her life within those stone walls.

 **XXXXX**

True to his word, he left before the feast. She did not watch his departure, only sensing his sudden absence like a drop in temperature. Something had fled her existence, something almost too hot to touch, too textured to endure. It left the air about her suddenly too thin to breath, the sounds too weak to hear. She'd gained and lost something so complex in quality, she had barely given a name to it before she had the chance to manipulate and understand it. All she knew was that it was no more and everything around her became colorless and dull because of it.

 **XXXXX**

 **Twelfth Night**

 **XXXXX**

Sister Madge's fast ended conveniently on the feast of the Epiphany. She had promised ten days but decided, in honor of such great things as what was now coming to be known in the surrounding villages as the Miracle of the Angel's Mass, she carried it until that holy day. She'd become thinner, somewhat weaker, but also felt purged of the madness of those twenty-four hours. She still thought of Commander Odair, the Red man who learned was named Darius, and two others who she had no occasion to meet at all. But in particular, she thought of Gale Hawthorne and guessed that the acute pang with which she recalled him must certain lessen with the passage of time.

Mother Superior Sae, who had observed in Madge a serene, methodical mind and the rare talent of being able to read and write, set her to the task of copying manuscripts in the library. Therefore, after her morning chores, midday meal and prayers, she retired to the library adjacent to the Prioress's study and began the slow work of reproducing the holy texts so prized in the monastery. Madge found comfort in the monotony of the work and in the learning she discovered, for she often paused in her work to read other books, discovering the melodic work of St. Augustine, the remarkably learned text of Hildegard of Bingen, the great thinking of the Greek philosophers preserved through transcription over time. Her father had valued reading and writing and had given his daughter an education that would allow her to do both, something that gave her great solace in the long, lonely hours of her life.

As she copied an illustration, her thoughts flew to the knights who had come only eleven days ago, with their wounds and their disruption of her life. She did not often dwell on thoughts of them, but she indulged herself as she copied, thinking of Gale in the throes of fever, thrashing in his cot. She considered his tale and what drove him to fight in the hot deserts of the East. She tried not to consider his eyes or the way his chest rose and fell under the struggle of his illness - she knew these were paths her mind should stay clear from. Still, thoughts of him filled her with both anticipation, joy and an underlying melancholy for the growing distance between her present and those days of the past.

The clattering of metal and stamping of hooves drew her attention from her work. She glanced out the window and noted two men on horseback who had arrived and whose horses were being situated by the nuns in the stables. The day was frigid and ice hung heavily about the windows, obscuring her view of the details of their dress but they were clearly knights, by their carriage and the banners that hung from their steeds..

Madge considered the strangeness of the arrival of these guests on the most holy day of the year but, in the ensuing silence, returned to her work, laboring quietly, in methodical comfort, enveloped by the utter predictability of every moment of every day, likely to be the same exact rhythm for the remainder of her life.

Her head snapped up at the thought, a quiet desperation overtaking her. She dipped the quill in the ink, careful to blot the excess and brought the tip of the feather to the paper, pausing as it hovered. This. This is what she could expect. Her habit suddenly felt like a noose and her coif a stiff, white leash wound around tightly around her head, giving her space to live, perhaps to explore but short and could be yanked back at any time by the host of people who controlled her - her uncle Snow, Mother Superior, Father Abernathy, the Pope himself - she could expect that she would never be her own individual, her own person. Choice was something she had never had because she was a woman and the daughter of a great, but deceased, man. She knew that if she had been given any choice at all, she would select for herself the path that promised the most freedom each and every time.

She signed herself, hoping that her thoughts were not too displeasing. The light waxed and waned with the clouds passing just beyond the large windows as Madge continued to work for another three-quarter hour until she heard the creak of the library door as it opened and looked up to see Mother Superior Sae enter the room.

"My child," she said gently, in a way the older woman never spoke to her. Fear gripped Madge's heart suddenly and she swallowed hard.

"Mother Sae?" she answered as a question.

She drifted to her desk, looking at Madge's handiwork. A gorgeous letter _H_ was adorned with ivy, roses, and large leaves, a gate in the background against which rested a tethered horse, its whinnying almost audible through the pages of the book.

"Sister Madge, you have a visitor. He has requested a private audience," she said slowly.

"Me?" Madge answered, ordering her desk absentmindedly as she began to shake. Her nerves were never the sturdiest and she did not enjoy surprises in the least.

"Yes, Sister. But before I allow him to speak to you, I must…" she faltered, searching for words that would not come but after a pause, she tried again. "Your situation is a particular one. Do not think for one moment that we are not aware of this."

Madge's thoughts flew to her uncle, who now sat in the midst of lands that rightfully belonged to her. She agreed that her situation as a dispossessed dowager was peculiar and yet sadly, all too common for women of a certain rank.

Mother Sae continued. "You must understand the position of the Church. We champion the right of the individual to worship God in the manner most appropriate to their temperament and disposition. You have been an optimal novitiate, fulfilling your duties with seriousness and modesty, though it is clear your heart and mind are elsewhere."

"Mother…" Madge said, an apology ready on her lips.

"No, please, I have not come to correct you but to...liberate you."

Madge furrowed her brow in confusion. "Liberate? How so, Mother?"

Mother Sae nodded at the young lady. "You are dutiful and conscientious. You are also, by virtue of your Uncle's actions, free, more so than any other young lady who resides within these walls, waiting at their family's leisure to be married off. Your...divested fortune means you are poor but you are also free to choose your way. You do not require the permission of Lord Snow or the King to live as you see fit, child. Your impediments are now those of even the lowliest of us - poverty and perhaps a lack of connections. Do you understand?"

"Yes...I believe so..." Madge said in confusion.

"Very good. Sir Hawthorne requests a private audience with you. Will you see him?"

Madge stiffened in shock. Sir Hawthorne? You mean, the knight…?"

"The very same, Sister. Will you receive him? I can stay with you, if you like…"

Madge's mind raced with the possibilities as they presented themselves to her, one more preposterous than the next. "No..no, Mother, that is not necessary. I...I will meet with him," she said, stumbling over her words.

The older nun nodded before leaving the room. Moments later, she heard the heavy tread echoing along the hallway, becoming louder and louder. She watched the door until a large shape loomed before it, in an instant, resolving into the figure of the grey-eyed knight, his dark hair straight and combed back impeccably. He was the same knight who only a few days early appeared to be at the door of death, and yet, in his riding clothes and disease-free health, had become another man altogether.

"Sister Madge," he said by way of greeting, toying with his gloves as he spoke.

"Sir Hawthorne. I trust you are well?"

"I am, thanks to you," he said, lapsing into silence again. The wordless tension stretched awkwardly between them until Madge could not stand it anymore. "Will you take a seat, sir?"

Gale shook his head, swallowing hard. "I am not known for my gift with words. I am quiet, even taciturn, given more quickly to anger than to laughter. I am even considered stern, for my age."

"Indeed, sir, you do have a sanguine humor," Madge confirmed.

Gale gave a small smile that disappeared quickly under the throes of his excessive feeling. His agony was visible around his eyes, in the way his hands trembled as he fidgeted with his gloves. Madge had a sudden, inexplicable desire to reach out and still his agitation with her own serenity.

"But I am loyal and will protect what is mine with my sword, even with my very life. I do not know how to perhaps...love a girl as those great knight's tales sung by the bards, but I can take care of you all the days of your life," he looked up then and held her gaze.

"Sir…" Madge said cautiously.

"I owe you my life, for this alone, I should place myself at your feet but, Sister, from the first moment I laid eyes on you in my fever, I knew you were reserved for me. I thought it a cruel trick, that I should be so smitten by a girl beyond my reach so I overstepped myself…

Madge remembered Gale tearing the coif from her and understood now his audacity.

"I began to hope, perhaps, that you were not forbidden to me. I returned to my village, learned of the particulars of your circumstances. I asked my father for his blessing and I am now here. I would marry you, Sister, if you would accept the strange and incredible events that have led us to this place and consent to become my wife despite them."

"Or because of them," Madge blurted out, closing her eyes. She searched her heart and understood, in that moment, the unnamed thing that he had brought and taken away when he'd left. She understood her melancholy, the bleakness of surroundings that had been robbed of vibrancy when he went away. She understood but it was too soon to give it a name and so she considered instead what he offered - tentatively, a stab in the dark perhaps. But as Mother Superior had said, she was free in a way she could never have been with her lands, her wealth. And this, this too, was part of the journey that had carried her here, just as his unrequited love and his campaigns in Jerusalem were steps on a path that crossed hers, here in this convent, in the middle of the steppes of the most forlorn part of Panem. And miracles? Perhaps even those were part of the conspiracy. Before so much evidence, she could not choose otherwise.

"Sir, I am not given to many words either. I have no wealth, no dowry to speak of. But I can read. I can write, sew and play the harpsichord…"

Gale stepped forward as her words tumbled from her mouth.

"I, too, am loyal and faithful, not given too much in the way of levity but I cannot deny when events seem to conspire to bring two souls together. I accept your offer on the strength of this…"

"And on the strength of some gentler feeling?" he whispered, a hairsbreadth away from her and this time, there were no potatoes to save her.

She gazed into his eyes, lost in the burst of color that she could finally see, color that was visible only when one was as close as she was - a sea of blues but also faint glints of gold, orange and yellow. His eyes were not pale but were a mask of opacity beneath which ran colors as bright as the rising sun. Would it always be this way? Would she spend her life in the discovery of all that was new to find in him? She hoped and prayed for it.

"Not a gentle feeling, Sir. It is strong, so strong, I have battled and lost to the memory of you since you have departed."

Gale nodded and gave her a genuine smile, something she that must be so rare, she thought she might be dazzled mindlessly by it. And soon, behind his smile, came his lips, warm and gentle against her own. The flood of heat that swelled from the point of contact spread throughout her body and her submission became complete. She would never undo the effect of that kiss on her, for as long as she lived.

When he pulled back, she swayed on her feet, his strong arms keeping her in place. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes to his hooded ones, the clear color of his eyes now smokey and dark.

"It will displease my uncle. Have you no fear?"

Gale gave her a look of disbelief. "I have fought in foreign lands for two years. Survived a sword cut and had a miracle and a wife sent to me by the hand of God himself. What do I have to fear from one such as your uncle?"

Madge nodded, recovering her legs. "You are too confident. He is a man to fear."

"I will confront that when the time is right. I will have cause to meet him soon enough. But he is not my concern now. If you agree, Father Abernathy awaits to complete the ceremony. And then I will take you to my family, who are even now preparing for our return. You will spend twelfth night with us, Angel of Light and by this time tomorrow, all will know that you are my wife. I will not expend another thought on your uncle today."

Madge nodded, taking his arm as he led her from the room. Now was not the time to think of Snow but a time for joy and such happiness that she thought her heart would burst from it. She tugged the coif and habit from her head, releasing her bright, shiny curls, and set the cloth on the table near the door of the Prioress' study, saying goodbye to that short interval of her life. She hoped that it would serve the next novitiate as well as it has served her.


End file.
